Think Happy Thoughts
by Pax Moony
Summary: Zoey is a psychiatric nurse. After being moved from the comfort of her old job to the Grangington House, she finds herself caring for a mind more dark than she could imagine. Zoey x Mal. Dark fic. Rated M for language, violence, and Mal. (Part of The Vitus Macrocosm Series)
1. Fatal Attraction

_Greetings, fellow Total Drama fans, Moony here! It seems like every time I find something to adore wholeheartedly, I must write something for it. So here. Have a dark fic. This will be mutli-chaptered, and I plan to make future chapters much longer; this is simply a pilot._

_I don't know what it is, but I adore Mal and Zoey together. I think it's the whole evil, evil bad boy and innocent sweetheart thing. Either way, they're my OTP at the moment. I just. Augh. I can't even. There's not enough of them on here, so I figured I'd give it a shot. I hope you enjoy, and can't wait to hear what you have to say!_

_~Moony_

Chapter One - Fatal Attraction

How had she come to share a bed with the infamous psychopath? She could hardly recall how many days it had been since she'd fallen under his lusty spell. Even now, as she lay with him, curled close to his body, he didn't sleep. His deep breaths permeated the silence so that she could hear only the air in his lungs and the beat of his heart, her ear pressed to his chest. This calmness that he had acquired was a huge contrast from the first time she'd met him. In that hospital, he'd been pushed to his farthest limits; the torture of isolation only made him stranger, wilder, and more of a taboo. He'd grown away from society, making his own rules, finding his own way. Prison wasn't simple enough of a word to describe his experience there. It had been his own personal hell until they brought her to him. Their union was nothing short of a miracle.

She frowned softly, rousing herself from her semi-sleep as she turned onto her back to stare at the ceiling. He glanced over at her with his dark eyes, and let his hand fall from her shoulder. There was a silence between them, even as she slipped her fingers between his and examined his hand; his rough, calloused, scarred hand. He'd done horrible things with his hands; she'd watched him do horrible things; he'd forced her to watch horrible things. Yet, he'd never harmed a hair on her head. Not directly, anyway. He snaked his arm around her, pulling her to him more closely than before, and turned on his side to face her. He gazed at her, his wide, sleepless eyes watching her with the utmost scrutiny; she gazed back at him with a more serene expression. For a moment there was nothing but the sound of their breathing before he broke the space between them and let his lips slip against hers in an aggressive embrace. She responded timidly, letting him have his way. She'd always let him have his way. That was how it had all started. Two years ago, everything was different. They weren't running for the border. She wasn't a wanted criminal. She was just a girl, trying to do a good thing. She had no idea that the moment she stepped into that wretched place would change her life forever.

Perhaps it was the white walls, or the spotless floors, or the distinct taste of chemical sterilizers that lingered in the air which made the redhead uncomfortable. She was used to the cheerful, bright atmosphere of the Harden Institute. She had worked there for only a few months before she was transferred to the facility that she was now to attend at all times. The Harden Institute had been a small facility with a staff of only twenty nurses and four doctors. Everybody who had worked there knew one another along with the patients that they took care of. Things there had been homier, softer to look at, gentler. This was not so for the Grangington House. Large on the outside, and even more vast on the interior, Grangington was home to hundreds of patients, most dubbed by the state, 'criminally insane.' It was cold, and melancholy, and 'homey' was definitely not the right word to describe it.

Though all of the aforementioned factors bothered her, more than anything, she was made nervous by the young man's harsh gaze and hungry eyes. He watched her with the utmost of ravenousness in those dark orbs, though she wasn't the one asking him the questions. He directed all of his answers to her, as if she were the only person in the room capable of understanding what he had to say; that is, when he would answer. More often than not, he directed odd questions in her direction, or bizarre requests that didn't make much sense.

Zoey was a psychiatric assistant. She'd been in love with her job at the Harden Institute before she was transferred to the Grangington House. They'd needed extra aid, the doctors had insisted, and she had the perfect attitude and spunk to help. This place was much harsher than the one she'd worked for previously, and the people at Harden had been much less intimidating. Here, she felt like prey. At any given moment, somebody could attack, maime, strangle; she'd be entirely vulnerable to anything. That was why this young man was making her so uncomfortable. Despite the fact that he was bound in a straightjacket, something about him seemed incredibly strong; completely insane. Though it was obvious that he had a natural tanness to his skin tone, it had faded slightly from years spent away from the sun. His eyes were bruised from a lack of sleep, or perhaps too much of it; nonetheless, his beetle-black eyes watched her from behind a veil of dark brown hair, burning with some unknown fever. He had a space between his teeth-whether it was just a gap, or if it was where he'd lost a tooth or two, she couldn't tell. No matter the reason behind it, it made his smile all the more menacing, crooked and incomplete.

This young man was a very special case; he'd once claimed to have multiple personalities. Now, however, he seemed only to exhibit signs of sociopathy and violent behavior. She would be assigned to him and nobody else, taking care of his medications, keeping him company, and, above all else, making sure he stayed out of trouble for as long as she remained at the facility. This was what Dr. Kobe was doing his best to explain to the young man, though it was beginning to seem hopeless. For the past fifteen minutes, now, they'd been standing there, trying to make him fathom what was going on, or at least acknowledge that the doctor was speaking. He simply kept his eyes focused on the redhead's face, examining her closely, as if she were a new toy.

"Mike," the doctor prodded, glancing between his patient and the young woman beside him. "This is Zoey. She'll be helping to take care of you from now on." The young man refused to answer, eyes glued to hers, smile fading into a grimace. She did her best to keep up her smile, though it was beginning to falter and give way to a shiver. She looked away from him, unable to keep her gaze fixed upon his. He smiled again, triumphant. What a pretty little doll for him to play with. She'd be easy to overtake, submissive.

"Pretty girls shouldn't be nurses," he murmured, offering his dark, broken smile. "Their pretty faces will get them in trouble, especially in a place like this. Especially with a body like that." Zoey frowned and crossed her arms, already unsure of this situation. She didn't want to be this man's caretaker. He was unnerving. She spent the next few moments trying to decide whether or not he was complimenting her or threatening her, discomfort only growing with her internal debate.

"That's quite enough, Mike," Kobe commanded, eyes narrowing a bit. "You'll be on your best behavior while she's working with you. She's shown outstanding work performance in the past. Treat her with respect, or-"

"Or what?" the young man snapped, glaring at the doctor. This was the first time since the beginning of this interview that he'd spent any of his attention on the physician. "You'll take away my new plaything?"

"She isn't your 'plaything.' She's a person, she's your nurse, and you'll be sure to act your age. I will not hesitate to replace her with somebody more forceful. This is your last chance to follow the rules." The boy paused, pacified for the moment. Slowly he nodded, returning his attention to the girl.

"Why don't you tell me your name?" he inquired, eyebrows raised a bit. He'd obviously not paid attention to anything that Kobe had previously mentioned about her. "You tell me yours, and I'll tell you mine."

"Zoey," she replied, doing her best to maintain her smile. "It's a pleasure to meet you Mi-"

"Don't call me that. Mike is dead. Mike is dead. I'm not Mike." He cast his attention back to the doctor, eyes ablaze with malice. The nurse faltered for a moment before she nodded, his response catching her by surprise.

"Alright, not Mike," she noted. "Then what do you prefer to be called?" His brow furrowed before he looked back to her. Kobe stood, and the young man shut his mouth tight, refusing to speak any further. The older man offered the nurse a pat on the back and wished her a brief 'good luck' before he left the room. The young man cast his glance back to his nurse, softening a bit as the doctor retreated.

"You can call me 'Mal,'" he replied after the doctor slipped out the door. His eyes lingered at the threshold, as if afraid that somebody else would enter. "But nobody else. You have to keep it secret." She kept her eyes upon him, allowing herself to sit, and clasped her hands in her lap.

"I can keep a secret," she replied, offering him a smile. It took him a moment to register that she'd agreed. He didn't smile back at her. He merely rested his head back against the wall, indifferent to this situation.

"If you couldn't," he said, a dangerous edge to his tone. "I wouldn't let you live." Whether threat or fact, she didn't question. Her smile fell, and she rubbed her temples. Silence passed between them for a long time before she spoke again.

"Is there anything I can do for you?" she asked, biting her lip a bit. He merely laughed in response, mirthless.

"Oh, trust me, honey. There's plenty you could do for me. But only a few of them don't break the rules." He licked his lips before he leaned forward a bit, growing serious again. "One thing you could help with, though, is taking this damned thing off of me." Even as they spoke, the tight cloth and straps of the straightjacket were digging into his skin, causing him great discomfort. She immediately nodded, and stood to meet him. He stood with her, and turned his back to her so that she could loosen the infernal garment from his body.

"There we go," she murmured, smiling as she pulled the straps loose. "That better?" He took a moment to sigh with relief, flexing his fingers before he looked up at her.

"Much better," he replied, smiling. Before she knew what hit her, his fingers were pressed into her throat, and she was pressed back against the wall. His face was dangerously close to hers, and she could feel his breath on her cheek.

"I will not hesitate to crush your pretty little face," he hissed, slipping his fingers upward so that he was pinching her cheeks together. "If anyone needs to worry about behaving, it's you. I'll do what you ask. I'll take my medication. I'll go to bed. Whatever. But the moment you try to pull one over on me will be your last. Understand, doll?" She was quiet for a long time before she gulped a deep breath, nodding. His smile returned, reassured by her response. He released her from his grasp and pat her on then head.

'I think we'll get along just fine, Zoey."


	2. Reflektor

_Holy crap… I wasn't expecting such a positive response from the readers. I really appreciate all of your support. You guys rock! I seriously can't thank you all enough for your encouragement, requests, and ideas. A special thank you to my new partner in crime, Thanny Bialy, for helping me to write this chapter! You're a huge help, and I love you like a sister!_

_Let me know what you all think, and be sure to give me some input. My biggest goal is to please you as the audience!_

_~Moony_

Chapter Two - Reflektor

"_Feliz navidad, feliz navidad, feliz navidad, prospero ano y felici-" _The music went silent as he grimaced and switched off the radio with a grumble. Snow was on the ground; the weather hadn't let up for the past two days. It was bitingly cold outside, it was hell to drive in, and he was sick and tired of hearing holliday music. It was little things like this that had been wearing his nerves thin. He'd never been a fan of the holidays to begin with; he didn't have enough joy to spare. This season was easily his least favorite, and this situation was definitely not the time to be listening to some spanish christmas carol. Zoey frowned, looking over at him as his head fell against the glass of the window with a muffled thud. This journey of theirs was taking a toll on the both of them. Nine days until Christmas, and they were both celebrating by outrunning the law.

It hadn't been an easy ride. Actually, this was one of the most challenging experiences of her life. Running away from her problems was not in her character. She was used to facing them head on. She had him to think about now, though. Facing this problem would land them nowhere but a prison and/or psyche ward. The last thing she wanted was to be separated from him. That had already happened once, and she didn't want it to happen again.

She'd been on the lookout with a very watchful eye, doing her best to avoid the police and speeding down the highway. Being on the run meant stolen cars, drives at three in the morning, acting natural-even though this was clearly _not_ a natural situation-and a lot of lying. She didn't like to lie, but his safety was more important to her than anything now. Naturally, he felt the same responsibility for her that she felt for him; he'd killed several people since the escape to keep her from harm, to keep her to himself, to make sure that she knew that she was _his_ and nobody else's. Though this had fueled a fear of him inside her soul, it had also ignited a passion in _him_ that she couldn't help but adore. Sick fantasies became reality, and reality became a cruel, livid thing for the both of them. The only thing left to do was run from the rest of the world and start all over; to wash away all of the stains that muddled their past.

She cast her glance over at him, averting her gaze from the road only momentarily. He had his eyes cast out the window, face illuminated every few moments by a passing streetlight. She reached over for his hand, and slipped her fingers between his before casting her gaze back to the vast expanse of highway before them. He raised his head, eyes flashing to hers before he rested against the window once more. How long would it be before they reached safety? Neither knew for sure. Neither of them wanted to go back. Neither of them wanted to die, or be isolated. This was their greatest fear; separation.

Their time in the hospital had always been interesting, to say the least. There had been periods of bonding between the two. There had been moments when said bond was tested, pulled, stretched, and-on one occasion-broken. She wasn't proud of her feelings, nor her relationship with him, but it was something that she couldn't just forget about. He charmed her, made her feel special, told her she was special to him. She fell for that. She still wasn't proud of herself, but she'd fallen for it, and this was what it had won her; him sitting in the passenger seat, doing his best to seem relaxed; knowledge that he would always carry a gun wherever he went; watching people be manipulated; watching people die; and the love and adoration of the man who did it all. For that, she decided, it was all worth it. Despite all logic, and all common decency of the human mind, he was worth it to her. That meant more to him than any body that he could claim in the name of blood. What he had once found a complete annoyance about the girl had become his favorite thing about her; her unwillingness to give up. Even when it came to him.

Once upon a time, that determination had irked him to no end. He would have given _anything_ to make her give up, to make her stop trying to make things right. Things didn't always work out 'right,' especially when working in a mental hospital.

He didn't open up to her right away, that was for sure. The first few weeks of their relationship were rough and crude, perhaps a bit one-sided. She did as he asked, and he did nothing for her in return. They were different as night and day. He would cast derogatory comments in her direction, empty threats, and promises of murder and gore should she make any mistakes. There was no telling whether he was completely serious and capable of carrying out these promises, or simply insane, too unstable to realize that these were worthless rants and nothing more. Though, from Zoey's perspective, it seemed that the latter was more likely. He was, after all, a patient at the Grangington House. That spoke for itself, she'd thought. Actions spoke louder than words.

She'd done her best to forget what had happened on her first days; his breath lingering on her skin, his fingers pressed so hard against the tender flesh of her throat that it brought tears to her eyes. He'd let her go without a mark on her, but he'd made his point very clear. He was in charge, and nobody else was. Whatever he wanted, he would have, no matter the request. Asserting his dominance was something that he _was_ capable of doing, and he was unafraid of showing her that. Certainly he was capable of carrying out the threats and promises. She simply didn't want to face that fact, and remain in the happy state that is denial. She was safe. No matter what he said, she was safe, and he couldn't take away the security that she had within the hospital's walls. Guards posted at every entrance, bars on the windows, security cameras in every hallway; she was safer here than she'd been anywhere else. That is, unless you thought about the fact that there were more dangerously crazy people inside the building than sane ones. Disregarding that fact, she felt perfectly safe. She had to.

It had been only a week since their first encounter. She'd spent her time since then in a daze, following the doctor's orders along with the patient's. He'd been relatively cooperative, despite the fact that he was more than a bit grouchy. He hated the hospital. She went throughout her daily routines, taking care of him, making sure he took his medication, accompanying him for a while, and then going home.

The majority of her days with him were spent in silence or making awkward conversation about herself in hopes that he'd eventually chime in and open up to her. This, of course, kept their conversations from her point of view. From time to time he'd show interest in what she had to say, but mostly stuck to watching her with disdain or indifference in his gaze. She tried not to notice, but it sometimes made her skin crawl, the way his eyes travelled over her with a mix of disinterest and malice.

With time, he began to ask his own questions about her, which she would answer with pleasure. Interaction and socialization were usually the first steps of treatment. If she could get him to open up, she could understand the core of his problems, and understand _him_ a little better in general. It was the only thing she had, as well as the Doctors. He refused to speak with anyone else, and held a large amount of animosity for Dr. Kobe, refusing to follow his treatment plan and therapy sessions unless the only one enacting them was Zoey, herself. Though this was odd behavior, it was expected. As he grew familiar with her, he grew more comfortable with her, and she became the closest thing he had to a companion. He liked that. It could be incredibly advantageous to have somebody on his side. Winning her trust would prove most beneficial, and he would do everything in his power to gain it.

"Is it time to take my medication yet?" He'd been sitting cross-legged on his cot with a bored expression for the past few hours. "I would really like to put my mind at ease for a bit. I'm beginning to doubt myself around you, Zoey." He smiled dangerously, eyes narrowing a bit. She blushed and turned her head, smiling. Though to anyone else, this might have been perceived as a threat, she knew better. It was his way of being sociable, which he wasn't good at in the least. Little things like this made her feel a bit sociopathic for smiling, or blushing, but she knew better

Her hands doled out the pills into separate piles. There was one for his mood swings, another that was the strongest anti-psychotic they carried, and other ones that were supposed to do a multitude of things. Magic pills that the doctors prescribed to keep the monsters away; to 'cure' him of his problems, or at least to keep them at bay for the moment. She scooped them into her hand, counting out the pastel pinks, and dark blues to make sure there weren't too many or not enough. 

"Here," she set a glass of water to the side, still doing her best to hide her smile. She replaced the look easily with one of concern, taking note of his skin and the circles under his eyes being a shade darker than their usual bruised brown. "Drink all of the water this time, please. You look dehydrated."

"Do I?" His face fell, looking less than amused by the statement. Regardless, he did as asked and downed the pills before resting his head back against the wall. He was silent for a long time before his lips curved into a gruesome smile. "Zoey?" Her face had fallen along with his, but bounced back to its usual vibrancy when he spoke to her, as eager as ever.

"Yes?"

"Have you ever thought about killing someone?" he asked, truly curious. There was no malice in his voice, simply a morbidness that seemed to ooze about him anyway. His entire presence was filled with a heavy amount of darkness. It wasn't hard to see. This question, however, caught her off guard, and bothered her a bit.

"I…" She frowned after a moment of thought, voice lowering. Sometimes he really did scare her, straight to her bones. "No, I don't think so. I don't ever want anyone to die." He thought that over, frowning a bit before he cast his glance back at her.

"Never? Hm. What a shame." He shrugged his shoulders before he rested his chin in his palm, eyes shut. She watched him, biting her lip and becoming very uncomfortable all of a sudden. She was jarred from the safety and security that she'd come to expect from the place. He really was dangerous. She went over how she'd come to be here in the first place again in her mind. Sometimes it just seemed so different and surreal, she couldn't help but count it off as if every day she were walking through a dream. Or a nightmare. She had trouble telling the two apart anymore.

Two months at Harden had gotten her stuck here with him. Though she sometimes found solace in his company, it was very rare. She had, just as Kobe said, exhibited excellent work performance in her old place of toil. Within those two months, she'd been picked, as if out of thin air, to come to this wretched place. Still, she arrived every day as if she were at her old job, with perfect nails, hair, shoes, spunk and a smile. She put on the air that everything she did was easy, and came as flawlessly as her complexion.

"Don't forget to breathe, dear," he uttered after a moment of her silent staring off into space, and raised an eyebrow in her direction. She made a point of taking a deep breath that he could see, before busying herself.

"I _am_ breathing, see?" She organized her papers, shuffling them unnecessarily. "That's what I do."

"You looked as though you were ready to suffocate for a moment," he smiled at her, slightly entertained. "I can't blame you. I have that effect on ladies, you see. Taking their breath away is a hidden talent of mine." He cackled for a moment, awaiting her response. Ah, how he delighted in her embarrassment and awe.

She watched him in confusion for a moment, watching his face, his movements. She relaxed after realizing that in a sense, he was relaying his own sense of humor towards her. Her smile came slowly, but she shrugged.

"I'm sure you do. I'd love to see your luck with the other in-patients," she giggled to herself, trying to imagine what it would be like to see this bizarre specimen putting on a show for _any_ woman.

"I'm sure you would," he raised with a smirk. "Let's just say, there are no words to describe how well I work. I leave them-" He paused, looking for the right word before he grinned, eyes narrowing. "Speechless."

"I won't believe it until I see it," she responded, linking her arms together as if giving him a childish dare. He wasn't currently allowed around other patients, but it was, at least, an entertaining thought.

"Aw, is somebody getting _jealous_?" He snickered at her. "There's no need to be _jealous_, Zoey. You'll always be my favorite plaything." She snorted indignantly, losing her professional composure for a moment as she met him with a sloppy, childish grin, eyes wide with delight.

"Please. I'm not jealous of anyone. I'm quite obviously the only womanly figure in your life."

"What, are you insinuating that if I _did_ have another womanly figure in my life that you _would _be jealous?" He was obviously taunting her at this point, doing his best to get a variety of responses from her. This was the most pleasure he'd acquired in months.

"I don't think so," she told him, answering him honestly. Her wall of professionalism had begun to rebuild itself. "I'm just an assistant. Nothing more, nothing less. Unless you'd like a friend. I think I could work with that." He rolled his eyes, crossing his arms.

"I don't need friends," he said, closing himself off the same way she had. "Especially not one so tempting to kill. Too pretty for her own good." His lips curled downward into a grim frown, and he glared at her, much like a child who had just lost an incredibly competitive game.

"Oh." Her lips pursed into a light line, and her humor was lost. The too-friendly smile she used on everyone snapped back into place. "I see. Well, I'm sorry that you view me that way." He merely shrugged in response, closing his eyes.

"I'm getting tired," he lied, feigning a yawn. "You should be getting out soon, anyway. You've been here way longer than you usually are." He popped one eye open at her, and raised his eyebrow, as if accusing her of something or another. She took the cue hesitantly, vaguely aware of the tone in his voice.

"I'll just..." She gathered her things, taking everything but the empty cup. "I'll let you rest. You could use the, uh, sleep." He watched her as she turned to go, and he laid himself down on the cot with a slow grin.

"Be safe on your way home," he uttered, a bit dauntingly. "Wouldn't want anybody to get hurt, now would we?" Zoey cocked her head at him as she headed out of his cell, working his words over in her mind. She brushed it off after a moment, reminding herself that he was in a cell surrounded by guards, and was entirely out of his mind. She was safer out of here than she was in the room with him. Still, her mouth puckered as she regarded him.

"No, I suppose not." She gave him a quick look-over. "I'm not sure why anyone would. I'll see you tomorrow." With that, the girl skirted out the door. For what reason he had mentioned that, she had no idea, but it bothered her.

Even as she drove down the street, she mulled it over and over in her head. Distracted by her most strange patient, and what he had said, the redhead paid little attention to the road, and the others on it. There were headlights, the sound of squealing tires, and then the crash. She lurched forwards in her seat, head hitting the steering wheel with an audible thud and crack. The windshield smashed, sending chunks of plastic, glass and metal flying everywhere. A black nothingness consumed her senses for a moment before the world became a blur of light and noise. The driver of the other car had stumbled from his seat with a stream of curse words before he turned his attention from the damages on his car to hers. The sound of sirens filled her ears as she gained partial consciousness, the bright blue and red lights casting shadows down the road. Bystanders watched with open mouths, driving by with the slowest and surest of caution. The next thing she knew, there were strong hands shaking her awake, and his voice was incredibly close to her. She could hardly breathe, let alone think, as he unbuckled her seatbelt.

"Fuck, lady!" The man cried out to her, doing his best to wake her from her stupor. "Damn, are you okay? C'mon, get up! Shit, _please_ get up! Wake up!" He did his best to drag her onto the road as the authorities rushed to their aid. She was ripped from the man that had pulled her from the car, and rushed into the back of an ambulance. That was where she ceased to remember anything from the night's proceedings. The world, once again, became a black hole from which nothing could escape. She was completely unconscious.


	3. Do You?

_Well. Here's chapter three. Ta da! Hope you like it! Special thanks to Thanny Bialy for being my most trusted partner in crime. Another big thank you to FreakyFangirl, who gave me some excellent ideas for this chapter. One more for all of you readers. I can't thank you all enough for being super supportive!_

_~Moony_

Chapter Three - Do You?

"It appears you've suffered a mild concussion," the doctor murmured as he passed the flashlight in front of her eyes. "But there is no significant damage aside from that. Are you feeling nauseous at all, young lady?"

"No, sir," she replied, shaking her head. He tsked at her and held her chin still, clicking his tongue impatiently.

"Ah, ah. Be careful now, don't move around too much. Even if you don't have a _severe _concussion, you've most likely sustained some damage. It's best to take it easy for a while. No heavy lifting and no physical activities that cause you to strain yourself for the next few weeks, and you'll be right back on your feet."

"Thank you, sir." She winced, holding her head. Other than a dull ache in the back of her head and a slight soreness in her limbs, she didn't feel much worse for wear than when she'd gotten in the car. "I'll try my best to do that." He nodded his assent before he stood up straight.

"Be sure to visit your physician if you begin to feel nauseous or dizzy. If you begin to lose your vision, call an ambulance," he said. "Don't stress yourself; be careful, avoid loud noises. Don't take any over-the-counter medications. Have somebody check on you periodically, especially while you're sleeping. Do you live alone?"

"I do," she replied, looking a bit troubled. "I just transferred to a new job, so I haven't really seen a lot of people outside of the workplace. Much less, gotten the chance to go out much."

"Now would be the good time to make some friends, then," he mused, raising his eyebrows. "If that doesn't work out, you'll need to stay near a telephone in case you start to feel unpleasant." He made a face for a moment before his eyes brightened. "Ah, by the way. The young man who was in the accident with you is out in the hallway. He mentioned something about exchanging insurance. You might want to speak with him." She nodded, taking a wobbly stand to make sure her legs wouldn't quit on her.

"I'll… just go deal with that, then. Thank you." He nodded, helping her out the door, doing his best to keep her on her feet.

"Be careful, be careful. Not too fast…"

"Thank you, really." She gave a weak smile, giggling a little at the Doctor's efforts to help her. "Not too fast. I think I can manage that. I'll be alright from here." She had no desire to go any faster than the pace the Doctor had set for her, anyways. As promised, the other driver was waiting out in the hallway, looking bored and a bit concerned. At the sound of her voice, his head shot up. Icy blue eyes met with her deep chocolate brown, and they were caught in a staredown for a long moment. Tousled black hair, piercings galore, and an obvious carefree attitude; she would have known that face _anywhere_.

"Duncan?" The shock registered on her face almost instantly, followed by curiosity. Immediately after she'd said his name, the recognition on his face melted into an expression of complete awe.

"Zoey?" There was a moment of complete quiet between the two before he was laughing. "No fuckin' way! You've got to be kidding me. _You_? Of all people!" His laughter was uproarious, as if this was some sort of sick joke played out by one god or another and she couldn't help but join him. The utter surprise upon her face was unmistakable. Just her luck.

"You're- I can't believe it."

"I thought I'd recognized you from _somewhere_, but I was sure I was wrong!" He laughed again for a moment before he grinned. "Long time no see, Little Red; and god, you're a sight for sore eyes. Even if you're not so little, or so 'red' anymore." She moved in to embrace him, and he gratefully wrapped his arms around her in return. After she pulled away, she ran a hand through her long, coppery locks.

"I sort of let it go back to its natural color; got sick of dying it over and over. How many years has it been?" She held out her fingers, counting them off before she gave up. "I hope you're the same knucklehead I knew."

"I ain't changed a bit." He grinned. "Damn, it's been since _senior year_. Can you _believe it_? After everyone graduated. God, we all lost touch, didn't we?" His face fell from a grin to a troubled frown, and he looked a little disappointed.

"Yeah, I guess we did." She shared his look for a moment before piping up again. "Are you still together with Courtney?" She doubted it. Everyone always knew about their fights back in school, but they'd graduated together, so she didn't know anymore after so many years.

"Nah," he replied, shrugging. "We went on for a while after high school, but you know. Things happen." He smiled a little, looking less forlorn than before. She gave him a sympathetic look, nodding her confirmation.

"I understand the feeling. I haven't even talked to Gwen in what feels like forever. I guess I've been so wrapped up in work lately..." She trailed off, face scrunching up. Her expression soured further as she thought about the last few months.

"She's doing well," he murmured, smiling. "She and I dated on and off for a while. She's off doing her own thing, ever the artist." She smiled at that. Gwen had been one of the more genuine people that she'd gotten the privilege to be friends with.

"What about you?" She examined him, noting that he still stood about half a foot taller than her. He'd also filled out more since their High School years, losing the last of his boyish features. He was ruggedly handsome, rough around the edges, but still attractive. He'd let his hair grow out from his mohawk, hair streaked with green as a reminder of his punky teenage years.

"Still your average delinquent," he replied with a shrug and a mischievous grin. "Nothing new at all."

"I'm glad to hear that," she smiled, genuinely relieved to hear that her friend hadn't changed. Their high school years had been a lot of fun together. Their group had been a motley bunch, really. A punk, a hipster, a valedictorian, and a goth girl. A few others had come and gone, like Trent and Geoff. Trent had really only stuck around for Gwen. After their little fling, he lost interest in his friendship with the rest of the group. Geoff had been friends with just about everybody. He threw wild parties, and everyone was invited, even their little group of outcasts.

Back in those days, Duncan and Courtney had been in a very, very intimate relationship. Said relationship involved arguments every other day, breakups that lasted only a few hours, and makeout sessions that lasted just as long. Gwen and Zoey had been convinced that the two would marry after graduation and carry on that way forever; obviously, that hadn't happened. Nonetheless, they'd been quite the topic for shits and giggles when they were all kids. Those were days when she had dyed her hair a scarlet red, and she always had something to laugh or smile about. A lot of time had passed since then.

"And what's Red been up to, huh?" he asked, eyebrows raising a bit. A smile crept onto his lips. "Got anybody special at home I should meet? Anybody whose face needs rearranging?" She laughed, thinking about the patient she'd left back at Granginton.

"No one special in _that_ way, right now. I've been caught up in other things, I guess," she smiled abashedly, embarrassed at her current lack of a social life. "As for rearranging, it's no one whose face you could rearrange legally." He sighed softly before he shook his head, suppressing a chuckle.

"Zoey, can you even name the last time that _legality_ mattered to me anyway?" He raised an eyebrow before he shrugged again. "But what's that matter anyway? What _have_ you been up to?"

"Well, I'm a Psychiatric Assistant now, so I guess hurray for achieving that." She threw her hands up in mock-excitement. "It's just my patient. I can't really say much, but he's a… handful." Her eyes narrowed and she sighed.

"Oh?" He frowned a bit, looking concerned. "How much of a handful?" He bit his lip, awaiting her response.

"I wish I could say," her lips curved downwards and she resisted the urge to shake her head. "Let's just leave it at saying that he's definitely in his natural environment. Locked up."

"Is he too much of a handful to, say, go grab a cup of coffee sometime?" He smirked a bit before he straightened up. "Oh, you know. I mean. If you're into that still." He shrugged his shoulders again, shoving his hands into his pockets. "You seem like you could use somebody to talk to." She laughed, smiling up at him, and placed a small hand on his shoulder.

"I would love to. It's the least I could do for wrecking your car. I haven't gone out with a friend in a long time." She beamed at him. "Way too long."

"My car was totalled anyway, the dumb old thing. Probably about to break down at any moment." He pat her on the shoulder, glancing about. "Are you alright? You're not too beat up from the crash are you?" He frowned, brow furrowing. He'd definitely softened a bit since his high school years, becoming a slightly more concerned individual. Perhaps it was simply his reunion with an old friend, but he had grown up. Delinquency, though he'd claimed it was still 'his thing,' it appeared that he'd given up on that lifestyle, at least a little. Perhaps all of those years with Courtney had finally gotten to him and caused him to soften up a bit.

"I'm fine," she assured him, tapping gently on her skull. "I'm slightly concussed, but as long as I take it slow for a few weeks, the doctor said I shouldn't have any trouble. No heavy lifting or activity. Perfect for a relaxing Cup o' Joe." He smiled, reassured by her response.

"That's good. Maybe you should take some time off work? If your patient is as much of a handful as you say he is, that could be considered a little straining, don't you think?" He shook his head. "Meh, what do I know, though?" Her lips puckered into a thoughtful frown. She hadn't missed one day since starting at Grangington, and the one day she'd showed up a few minutes late to the cell after talking with Dr. Kobe, she'd never seen such an intense look of disappointment and displeasure.

"Maybe I should, I just- I probably shouldn't." She looked down at the ground, tapping her feet against the bleached linoleum. She let out a nervous chuckle. "What would they do without me? I'll be fine. I can handle him, I think." He looked uncertain for a moment before he pat her softly on the back.

"If you say so," he uttered, crossing his arms. "But I'm still gonna kidnap you for a cup of coffee." He smiled at her in a threatening manner, teasing her. Which brought about memories of times in which he _had_ kidnapped her. There had been times when he'd slung that girl over his shoulder and threw her in the backseat of his car to get ice cream with the rest of the gang. Adolescence had been kind to them. Thinking about the days that they'd all spent packed into his car brought a smile to her face. It was good to genuinely smile again.

"Well, I_ am_ injured. If you were to drag me out of this hospital to a coffee shop in the next few days, I don't think I'd be in a place to refuse you." She shuffled her feet, looking up at him from behind thick lashes. "Not like I'd argue, anyway." It was the closest she was going to get to a desperate cry for some social attention outside of an asylum. He was obviously interested in reconnecting with her. Why should she refuse? She deserved a break.

"Glad to hear it," he replied, smirking a bit. "So. What days are you free?" And with that, there was nothing short of a friendship rekindling between the two.

"I usually don't leave work until later, but I should be getting off around five, if that works."

"Coffee, in the evening? Oh, well aren't you a rebel?" he chimed with a wink. "I'll pick you up at five then. Something's telling me you're going to be needing a ride places. Need me to tote you about?" She thought for a moment before she accepted the offer, a bit hesitant.

"I can walk, but I really wouldn't mind it if you did." He beamed.

"Here, then." He took her hand, whipping out a pen from his pocket. "Because if there's anything that we learned in high school, it's that your hands make a perfect contact card." He scribbled down his number on her palm. "If you ever need anything, just call, alright? I'm a bum. I don't have much to do. It'd be a pleasure to help out such a pretty girl." Zoey bashed him playfully on the shoulder and laughed.

"Good, because now I'll have to be sure to fill up your schedule." He blinked for a moment, a bit surprised before he broke out into a grin.

"Looks like I finally have something to keep me busy, then."

Duncan seemed to make things a little brighter for her. Not just little things; _everything_. Even her time spent at Granginton seemed a little less heavy-hearted than before.. Though she'd been berated with questions when she first returned, she didn't really mind. As she entered his cell, his eyes fell upon her frame with a grimace, and he stood to meet her, arms clasped tightly against his torso. He wasn't happy; that much was clear. Something else about him, though, seemed incredibly insecure.

"Well, look who decided to show up," he chided, watching her with a blazing gaze. "Where've you been? Thought you could skip out?"

"Yes," she responded quickly, "I thought I could. I'm entitled to a social life, I think."

"You're supposed to take care of me," he murmured, voice lowering to something little more than a whisper. The intensity in his voice only grew. "You've been missing for two days. Two fucking days, Zoey. I've been stuck with Kobe. _Of_ _all the people in the world to be stuck with._" He spat the last part like acid, jaw clenched tight. She flinched, expecting some sort of physical reprimand, but slowly began to uncoil herself when it didn't come. After a few moments, she gathered her courage, and turned to him.

"Yes, I did leave you with Kobe," she replied calmly, standing her own ground for once. "I've started to realize that my babying you isn't the best approach to your treatment. I think you need to start attending sessions with him again." Her voice came out less shaky than she'd expected it to be. The fear was there, definitely, but it was replaced with a sort of balance knowing that she was safe outside of this place, now. Or at least, it felt convincingly so.

"I don't _want_ to attend sessions with Dr. Kobe," he snapped, stepping forward a bit so that their faces were merely inches apart, his eyes wide and dangerous as ever. "All I want is for you to be here. _Here_. Right. Fucking. Here. Nowhere else. _Here._" His mouth pressed into a thin line, and he looked away from her, teeth gritting together. His voice lowered significantly, as though he were somewhat hurt. But that couldn't be right. He was sociopathic, psychopathic, both at once. He was upset that he hadn't gotten his way.

"You're _supposed_ to take care of me," he uttered. "I'm _dependent _on you." He put his hands to her cheeks, lips curling up into a ridiculous smile. He stared at her like that for a few moments before he laughed and sat back down on his cot, shaking his head. Something wasn't right here; something was incredibly wrong. Her voice grew gentle once more, as though nothing had changed. He needed to understand.

"I just don't think that's healthy. For you or for me." Her head shook slightly. "I think that it's a good thing we haven't seen each other for a few days."

"You're wrong!" He was roaring with laughter now. "I'm not insane, I'm not insane. I need you here, Zoey. You're my thing. My pretty little thing." His eyes shot up to her, bangs covering his face, and he began to whistle an all too familiar tune. Had something happened in her absence? She hadn't seen him like this before. He was out of his mind, completely. Her eyes widened at this display, and she backed down again, even if it was for only a moment.

"Just… settle down, okay? Please, settle down, and tell me what's wrong." She shifted anxiously, watching him for any sign that he understood. "It's just me, today. No Dr. Kobe. If you're really dependent on me, then depend on me while I'm here, right in front of you."

"With pleasure," he murmured, visibly brightening a bit. "If only I knew how, dear Zoey, if only I knew how. I would certainly depend on you like no other. Alas, I have no idea where to begin."

She took a moment to study him while he spoke. He couldn't have slept at all since she'd been away. She could've gone on to compile a list with all of the things that seemed wrong with this picture; in reality, the easiest thing to say was that he looked like hell. He needed a shower. He needed a glass of water. Had he been taking his medication? Was this how he had been before she'd arrived? He looked like he'd been neglected by the rest of the staff; too fearful to interact with him. More likely than the previous thought, though, was that they'd tried to treat him and he'd refused all of them in the most violent manner he could muster.

"This place is a mess." Her nose scrunched up at the sight, now that she was aware of it. She bent down to look him in the eyes, laying a hand to rest upon his shoulder. "What exactly happened here?"

"I went crazy," he confided in complete honesty, smile returning as he reached out for her hair. Taking a lock between his fingers, he smiled in utter bliss. Something was undeniably wrong here. "Aw, your hair is so soft. Wouldn't it be nice if it could be like that forever?" Her frown deepened and she pulled away, prying the hair from his fingers.

"It's just hair," she muttered, moving to collect her thoughts. He needed his medication as well as a shower. She highly doubted he'd taken either of those in her absence. "Let's focus on your hair, not mine, today. It needs washed badly."

"Your scalp is beautiful," he murmured. "I wonder if it would be as pretty if it were torn away from your skull." There was a long pause before he erupted into laughter again. He would definitely need his medication after she took him to the showers. She doled out the pills faster than usual, not even paying much attention to the count. Something was better than nothing. She placed them on the stand beside his bed and sighed.

"Just take these when we get back, alright?" she uttered. "I need you to do that for me, okay?" He nodded his consent before he piped up again.

"You said something about a shower? A shower sounds nice. Very nice. Are you gonna make me all _clean_?" He smiled at her, his lopsided smile. He seemed to be in some sort of a daze. "Gonna wash away all the stains, honey?"

"Yes. I'll wash you myself, if I have to," she replied sharply, pulling him up and towards her. He seemed to run on sheer willpower. Two days of dehydration, starvation, and being off of his medication, and he still could somehow_ function_. This was incredible, really, more than a bit fascinating; more than a little terrifying. It made her wonder; what sort of things was he capable of with such a strong will? Murder, surely. He constantly spoke of killing, blood, gore, violence, anything that might be considered macabre to the average individual. That was more than enough of a reason to lock him up. He had a dark mind and a dark heart, something that most people simply couldn't understand. He was different. And this mental breakdown that he was presenting to her right now was proof enough that he was dependent upon the hospital. Or, at least, he needed attention, some sort of acknowledgement that he existed. No matter what he said, no matter what he wanted to believe; he did need her. Now, even he couldn't deny that. She wrapped her fingers about his wrist, sighing as she led him down the hallway.

"Now, listen," she murmured, closing her eyes. "I can't always be here. You have to understand; I have other things that I need to do than just being here all the time." He didn't respond, smiling wickedly at the other inmates who, in turn, cowered away from him. He didn't often leave his room, but everyone knew who he was. They knew about the things he had done; they shared stories, invented horrors of their own. Gossip became reality very quickly to the deranged. He relished every moment of it, as if it were some morbid gift he were given from his most cherished enemy, some sort of awful respect he had earned.

"Yeah, sure," he responded, eyes darting about frantically. "Anything you say."

"I'm being serious," she murmured. "Whether you realize it or not, I _do_ have a life." She frowned thoughtfully as he nodded. He wasn't paying any attention to her words. He was laughing at the reactions of the other patients, snickering at their fearful expressions. He was enjoying himself more than he should have been. She let out a deep breath and pulled him more quickly down the hallway. When they reached the showers, she sighed and let her fingers slip from his wrist. He grimaced, staring at the door before he turned to watch her. She looked up at him, biting her lip.

"Do you need me to come in with you?" She sounded less than comfortable with this, which made him smile brightly.

"Yes, actually." He raised his eyebrows at her. She sighed and ushered him inside with an indignant frown.

"Of course you do," she uttered with a groan. With that, she ushered him inside. He stood in the center of the chamber, face falling back into a grimace as he turned to stare at her. She closed her eyes and ran her fingers through her bangs before she shook her head.

"Let's get you cleaned up, then." She moved her fingertips to the buttons of his pajama top, slipping them loose. He didn't seem to mind her touch too much, standing still as she worked her way through each one. He waited, patient, for her to finish, before his eyes narrowed.

"Don't," he whispered sharply as she went to pull the garment from his shoulders. She stared at him with a disgruntled frown. "Don't take that off."

"I have to," she replied firmly, pulling back at his sleeves. "I can't get you clean if you're fully clothed." He put up a fight for several minutes, doing his best to keep on his shirt, teeth barred with frustration.

"_No_," he growled. "I changed my mind. I don't want-" He was too late. She slipped the uniform from him, and his face fell. He quickly crossed his arms, doing his best to obscure her view, but she'd seen them. Her eyes widened momentarily before she softened, reaching out to touch his upper arm gingerly with a fingertip.

"Oh my god," she uttered, voice trembling a bit. "Mal, I-"

"Don't touch them," he ordered, looking away from her. "Don't even _look_ at them. I don't need-nor do I _want_-your pity. I'm pathetic, right? Just pathetic." He set his jaw, tightening his grip on his biceps to better shield them from her vision. On both of his arms, from the elbows up, horizontal slits littered his skin. Some looked fresh, others looked old; scars and freshly blooded tissue. They weren't clean cuts, either. Some of them were ragged and uneven, like the scratches you'd get from a cat or catching your skin on a sharp object.

"Mal, what have you done? You aren't serious, are you?" She gently pried his fingers from his skin, and he looked away, flexing his fingers with a deepening scowl.

"They look pretty fucking serious to me." He smiled bitterly, teeth still clenched. "I don't know how they could be any less serious to you, seeing as you're so concerned for my 'well being.'" She gently pressed her thumb to one of the marks and traced it before she closed her eyes with a sigh.

"There's not much I can do, is there? I-" She snapped her mouth shut, grinding her teeth as she looked over them again. Closing her eyes, she took a deep breath. "Let's just get you clean. We'll work on fixing this later." She let her fingers slip to his wrist for a moment before she pulled away from him. Even patients were supposed to have some sort of health care, which included check-ups and physical exams. If they were really doing their job, someone would've been bound to notice this- How badly had they cared for him before she'd come along?

She didn't have him entirely naked when she washed him; she helped him to strip down to a point where he was clothed to the bare minimum, and set to work on him. She took the time to lather his hair, and make sure that the rest of him was clean. The other doctors and nurses ought to have been ashamed of themselves, neglecting him when they knew that she'd been in an accident. Even if he _had_ refused treatment, there were ways of getting him to cooperate, if one actually took the time to listen to what he had to say.

"You're filthy," she murmurred. "I don't understand how you managed to do this to yourself just staying in your cell."

"Who says I did?" He closed his eyes with a nonchalant shrug before he cast his gaze upward again. She frowned, shaking her head. This was simply nonsense. He smiled at her puzzled expression, satisfied with himself for the moment. "So many things can happen when walking." A pregnant pause passed between the two before he continued. "Then again, I hardly understand how you managed to give yourself bruises. What were you missing for, these past couple days? Having a social life, you said? What are those, then?" He cast an accusatory glance at her arms. With her sleeves rolled up to her elbows, they were incredibly visible; blue and black splotches-now yellowing-from impact. She frowned and gave a look to them herself. She'd been so caught up in her reunion with Duncan, and the things that had followed that she hadn't really noticed them.

"Some things happened, and I met up with an old friend of mine," she told him, giving him at least a partial truth.

"Oh, did you get into an argument?" His smile returned, widening wickedly. "Did somebody hurt you? I can always pay them back for you, the pleasure being all mine."

"Not exactly." A small smile broke out over her face, but every part of it conveyed pure bliss. "He saved me a bit, actually. If anything, what happened that night ended up being my fault, but I'm happy, nonetheless. It couldn't have worked out any better." His expression fell to confusion, eyes darting from hers to her bruises. He couldn't exactly put his finger on why, but seeing her this happy about somebody else made him agitated. He quickly reaffirmed his scowl, trying to cover his now very confused consciousness.

"That so?" he uttered shortly, yawning with faux indifference. "How fortuitous for you." The utter disdain and apathy in his voice was evident. He quickly crossed his arms and waited. "Are you done yet? Can I get dressed now? Or are you gonna keep going on about this 'fateful reunion?'"

"Oh?" One eye narrowed at him, and a corner of her mouth turned upward. "You were more than happy to talk about me a few weeks ago." She tapped her chin thoughtfully. "Maybe we should talk about you, then?"

"What is there to talk about?" He glared at her. "How many meds is little Mikey on? Did I give him the right amount? Ohhh noooo.. I think he's forgotten to take them." He rolled his eyes, sarcasm clear. "I just want to get out of this damned bathroom."

"That's fine with me," she shrugged, feigning indifference as she tossed him a towel. "It's probably better to have you back in your cell, anyways. We need to talk about your scars."

"Whatever floats your boat, princess." He buried his face in the cloth, wiping his eyes, and then the rest of him. He didn't dare to look up at her until he was fully clothed again and ready to return to his cell.

In the back of her mind, she couldn't help but think to herself, '_I worry about you.' _After seeing him, all of the confidence she'd had to make him less dependent, or at least faking dependence, was now shot to bits. When she took his hand again to lead him back, she thought about how much he really_ did _depend on her. Even if he'd just said it as a power-play, it had worked because it was the truth. In all honesty, it was beginning to feel as though her whole purpose of being here wasn't because Granginton had been understaffed or in need of new assistants or nurses. They didn't want to handle him anymore. They'd hired her as fresh meat and passed him off to her so he could be someone else's problem. It was probably the reason why Dr. Kobe had given her such independence over his care, why he didn't push for sessions with him, and why they'd seemed to have given up on his care quickly even though she'd only been gone a few days, and on a medical leave, no less.

He was a lost cause, more dangerous alive than useless dead.

"I'm sorry that I left you alone," she murmured as she led him down the hall. "I didn't realize that it would be so… traumatic. I feel incredibly guilty, even if this _is_ out of my control." He shrugged his shoulders again, doing his best to remain distant.

"Do you?"

Upon reaching his cell, he sat upon his bed and took his pills in hand. She quickly counted them out, checking over her work which had proven a bit sloppy. She filled a glass full of water for him, and sat it upon his bedside table. He quickly gulped them down, rubbing his temples after he'd finished.

"Of course I do. How could you think otherwise?" He merely shrugged in response and laid down, eyes shut tight, chin raised toward the ceiling. There was a long silence before he decided to speak again. His words were softer and more gentle than before, though he still seemed a bit cold.

"Thanks," he uttered. "For making things a little better. A little easier." He opened his eyes again, casting his gaze in her direction. She smiled softly, and turned to the door.

"I'll be back tomorrow," she said, pausing at the threshold. "I promise."

"I'll be counting on it."


	4. Doctor Dog

_Well, darlings, since you've all been so faithful, I've decided to stay in my usual pattern and upload every four days. Now, I didn't realize until I uploaded the last chapter that this upload would fall on Christmas Eve. So, I've decided that I'll give you a little holiday cheer, despite the fact that this is a dark fic._

_First of all, I want to thank everybody who's been so kind as to follow, favorite, and review for as long as you have. It's been a real pleasure to write for you all. I'm super thankful to have such great viewers like you. You build me up, buttercup! Secondly, I want to wish you all a happy holiday! No matter what you're celebrating-be it Christmas, Yule, Hanukkah, Kwanzaa, or any other holiday that I have failed to mention-within the next few weeks, I wish you a great time celebrating with family, friends, and other loved ones. You all deserve it._

_Alright, I'll stop being sentimental, and get to work on my gift to you. A merry night to you all, and a little bit of Doey and Zal fluff!_

_~Moony and Bialy_

Chapter Four - Doctor Dog

The snow had begun to stick to the road over the last few hours that they'd been driving. On top of that, the redhead was growing weary, and her eyelids heavy. Her companion's inability to drive meant that she was constantly behind the wheel; it was beginning to take its toll on her. He hadn't slept at all, ever vigilant to keep her company despite the fact that he was just as tired as she was. They would have to pull over and rest at a motel.

Naturally, they couldn't afford anything more than a dump. The Tal Hershey Motel was nothing short of a mess. The man behind the counter was charging them by the hour, so they had a limited amount of time to rest up and head back out again. There was still gasoline to think about, too; they'd have to keep an eye on their wallet.

After slipping the key into the door, they threw what little they had into the room. He stepped inside and shoved his hands into the pockets of his hoodie, glancing about the room. The motel really should have been condemned; however, being a family owned business in the middle of nowhere, there weren't many brave enough to stop and make sure that they were up to code. It was enough, for now. One queen-sized bed took up most of the room; directly across from it, a small TV sat perched atop an empty dresser. The paint on the walls was peeling toward the trim at the bottom, revealing old scratch marks beneath that could have come from a range of sources. Several unidentifiable stains littered the floor, which left Zoey a bit uncomfortable. Even after being a nurse, after seeing people bleed profusely, and watching people _die_, she was squeamish when it came to places like this.

He turned to watch her for a moment before he sighed and sat down on the edge of the bed, gripping the sides of his head and rubbing his eyes with the tips of his thumbs. He took a moment to think things over before he looked up at her again. She sat down beside him, resting her head against his shoulder as he slowly wrapped his arm around her. He successfully managed to pull the young woman into his lap, and rested his chin atop her head.

"I know it's not really your thing," she murmured, slipping her fingers across his chest gently. "But happy holidays. I'm glad that I'm spending this one with you." She buried her face against his torso, smiling into his shirt. He sat quietly for a moment before he wrapped his arms more tightly around her, closing his eyes.

"You're right," he uttered in response, lowering his head so that his lips sat only a fraction of an inch from her ear. "It's not my thing; but I'm glad to spend my holiday with you too." For a moment, her heart stopped, and her stomach tied into knots, and she raised her eyes to meet with his. He stared back at her, doing his best to seem sincere. It wasn't that he was lying; he had a hard time expressing his emotions in a normal way. He came off as cold and closed off, more than a bit angry. She'd spent so much time with him, though, that she could see the honesty in his eyes. For once in his life, he had something to be thankful for, something to enjoy and protect, and be selfish about. _That_ was what the yuletide season was about-having something to cherish. One didn't have to appreciate the holidays in order to appreciate those that they cared about. Zoey just happened to be the _only_ one that he cared about.

They fell into the bed minutes later, too tired to have much fun. Though, initially, they'd attempted to undress and make fools of themselves for the hell of Christmas Eve, they hadn't been able to make it much farther than a kiss on the neck. Quickly, they gave up. They'd have their fun another time, when they were less taxed. Both exhausted from the ride and cold from the weather, they curled into one another in hopes of finding warmth and comfort. With his arms wrapped about her waist, Mal found himself drifting to sleep for the first time since the beginning of their voyage.

Zoey, on the other hand, felt too tired to close her eyes and sleep. Her mind drifted elsewhere; to things that she'd been doing before this giant mess had accrued. A year and a half ago, she was laying in the comfort of her own bed with another man. Though she wouldn't have traded the present for anything in the world-his even breathing slowly lulling her to sleep along with the strength and warmth of his arms-she couldn't help but ponder; what was so wonderful about _now_ in comparison to _then_?

She'd been working hard. Too hard, one might say. For every day that she was in the hospital, she spent every minute with her most curious patient. He always had a way of captivating her attention, keeping her on her toes. She was afraid _not_ to come into work after what had happened the last time. Christmas, however, was a different story. Kobe had insisted upon her taking a few days off. After all, with hard work came compensation; everyone in the hospital-who was in their right mind, of course-could attest to the fact that she'd been doing her duty diligently. She very reluctantly accepted his offer.

"Don't worry," he told her, smiling as he handed her coat to her. "I'll be sure that he isn't neglected this time. I'm incredibly disappointed in the rest of our staff for not doing their job, taking care of him." She eyed him with a concerned frown, biting her lip. Slowly, she slipped her arms through the sleeves of her jacket, and hiked up her purse strap. She shook her head.

"I would hope so," she chided. "He's _your_ patient, doctor, and I would hate to see him slip into bad habits. I'm only a nurse. You can't expect me to magically be able to make things better. It doesn't work that way." He nodded in agreement, though the grim frown that had settled upon his lips suggested otherwise. He swallowed the growing lump in his throat.

"I hadn't seen any progress from him," he admitted, albeit hesitantly. "Until you came around. Perhaps you're a little more 'magical' than you think. Whatever it is, he responds well to it. I'm hoping to get in a few sessions while you're away."

"I think that'll be good for him," she consented, eyes softening considerably. "Establishing a better relationship with his doctor should offer some improvement in his behavior, don't you think? I worry about him." Her frown deepened.

"I know that you worry," Kobe replied. "I'm telling you not to. He'll be in good hands while you're away. Enjoy your holiday vacation, Zoey. You deserve it." She smiled at him, a little more genuine than before, more thankful for his concern.

"You're a good person, Dr. Kobe," she murmured, eyes brightening. He grinned back at her, ushering her out the door.

It was frightfully cold outside, though the snow wasn't falling. It had been a while since the young woman had seen a white Christmas. That didn't stop the wind and chill from biting and stinging at her cheeks as she headed out to her car. Within the time that had passed since the crash, she'd managed to get the damnable thing fixed.

Along with her car being fixed, she'd managed to remedy her social life, even if only partially. She smiled as she squeezed behind the front wheel, thinking about what she'd come home to today. Everything had been going very smoothly since the crash. She'd been able to get Mal on a better treatment plan than before, courtesy of Dr. Kobe. The young man was more at peace with himself, now, a little more sociable with her. She'd been able to keep the cutting away, assuring him that he was healthier _not_ to gauge at his arms. He'd hesitantly accepted the new treatment plan; his behavior, however, seemed to be improving dramatically.

This progress, nonetheless, wasn't what was making her smile at that moment.

It had been three months since Duncan had moved in with her. They'd dated for a while beforehand, of course, making runs to coffee shops twice a week to meet up before they both headed out to work. He'd gotten lucky a couple of times; lucky enough to take her out to dinner, or a club, and gained a kiss upon the cheek as a thank-you for the fun. Their first kiss had been lingering and sweet, the kind that only seemed to come from fairy tales with unicorns and princes. She couldn't have been happier, really. He had a warmth and a passion about him that she found charming and sweet; something that had been severely lacking in her life for quite a while. It was a happy change in comparison to the damask conditions that she'd faced. She'd been lonely. She'd been afraid. Now, she didn't have to be.

He was sitting out on the front porch smoking a cigarette, waiting to greet her as she pulled into the driveway. He smiled, a plume of smoke escaping his lips as the engine fell silent, and she pulled herself out of the car to greet him. All the weariness of the day melted away as she slipped up the front steps of the porch.

"Well, well, well. What have we here?" The man said, looking her over, a smile spreading across his face. "Somebody's home early. I'll assume that's a good thing." He flicked away the butt of his cigarette before he stomped out the remaining embers.

"You guessed right," she replied, giving him a tired but contented smile. "I'm your captive for the next few day." His eyes widened in delight before he threw his arms up in a childish gesture.

"You can't possibly mean," he said, teasing with a bit of mock-enthusiasm. "That I get to have you all to myself for Christmas?" She giggled a little, smiling at him. After a moment her expression changed, mirroring perfect innocence.

"That would be correct! Ding-ding. How will we ever entertain each other?"He rubbed his hands together, eyes squinting at the corners, casting his face into an evil grin.

"Oh, how ever, indeed!" He leaned down to kiss her softly, and threw his arms about her waist. "I can't even begin to imagine." Her body automatically melded into him out of habit, and she pressed herself to his side. There was a devious glint in her eyes that only he'd been privileged enough to see in a long time.

"I'm confident we'll think of a few," she winked, a small grin settling on her features. He bit at her ear for a moment before he pulled away from her a bit, face scrunching up in fear.

"Those ideas don't have anything to do with ugly Christmas sweaters, do they?" She burst into laughter, the mischief in her eyes building with each passing moment.

"C'mon, mister. Let's get inside before we catch our death. _One _good thing about 'ugly Christmas sweaters' is that they keep people warm. A large contrast to a meager T-shirt." She pinched the cloth of his top before she giggled. He rolled his eyes, but let his arms slip from her body. She led him into the warmth of their abode, which hadn't changed too much since his arrival. He didn't pack much in way of stuff, but what he did have was a strange contrast to her own.

While her house had been neat, warm and cheery, his unorthodox sense of style clashed with hers. There were now little pockets of disorganization. She would sometimes find a half-hazardly slung coat on the back of one chair or another; every once in a while one might find a band poster nailed to the wall, a movie or a CD stuck where once there had been stacks of old patient files. Other paraphernalia was hidden away in closets and behind the furniture. It was in no way slovenly. It simply gave the place a lived-in feel that it had lacked beforehand. The place wasn't quite so lonesome as it had been.

"Did you get any eggnog?" Her eyebrow quirked as she smiled.

"How could I forget? Most people go for wine, yet you want eggnog." She patted him on the cheek. "You're too cute." He pouted at her, brow twitching with despair.

"I'm _not_ cute. I just happen to enjoy my holidays."

"Whatever helps you sleep at night, dear," she grinned and waggled her tongue at him before retreating to the kitchen. He followed at her heel, pouting all the while. She set the jug of egg nog down in front of him before pulling out the wine she'd gotten for herself. "I'm not judging. You drink your thing, I'll drink mine." He grumbled at her for a moment before he poured himself a glass. He simply couldn't help himself at this time of year.

Zoey reached to get a wine glass for herself, picking out one of the fancier crystal-rimmed glasses that she'd been given by her grandmother before she'd passed. She didn't use them often, usually keeping the Heirloom tucked in the back of her cupboards to gather dust. Today, though, was a different story. She could afford to indulge a little. There was no work, no Mal, and no would be the first real opportunity she'd had to spend with Duncan where she wasn't too tired or too busy for anything he was interested in. It was just them tonight, and she planned to take full advantage of that. And it was getting rather obvious that he would do just the same.

Their first few drinks had flown without any problems. After a few hours, however, they found themselves in a warm, sleepy predicament. Zoey was tipsy; Duncan was looking exponentially happier than usual. The movie that they'd half-paid attention to throughout the night was now completely lost on them. She'd managed to climb into his lap, demanding what little awareness he had left.

"Mh, you're so pretty," he murmured into her neck, stumbling over his words. "So, so pretty." She smiled softly, nestling against his cheek with a small whimper.

"Then just keep me here forever so I don't ever have to go back. Just stay here and watch..." Her expression soured for a moment as she tried to recall the movie. She eventually gave up, and snuggled back into him, sighing softly. "Just like this." He wrapped his arms around her tightly, resting his face against her breasts with a soft groan.

"Well, that's silly," he slurred, doing his best to make sense. "Who needs to watch, when you can just pally?"

"Pally?" She turned her head to look at him, doing her best to stifle a giggle and hiccuping instead. "I don't know what a 'Pally' is, but it sounds fun." He looked at her in a daze for a moment before an expression of pure bewilderment dawned on his features.

"I dunno what it means neither. Either?" He coughed and ran a hand through his hair. She brought her hand up to his locks and ruffled them for a moment before resting her hand there. She hummed in contentment, muttering softly.

"It's okay. Words are stupid anyways. They always come out so fuzzy." He nodded in agreement, a smile crackling across his drunken features.

"Aye. Aye, Zoey?" He murmured, wrapping his fingers about hers. She shook her head a little, blinking, and watched him with wonder.

"Hmm?" She laced her fingers back with his.

"You're great," he said, lips configured in a lopsided grin. "I love you. So. So much." There was a bit of drunken shock that registered on her face for a moment before it melted into bliss.

"Really? That is so sweet of you." She gave him a quick peck on the lips before closing her eyes. "I hope you feel the same way in the morning." He sloppily kissed her once more, tender and sweet, warm and inviting. It took her a moment to register that she was kissing him back; before long, they'd made their way to their bedroom. In an even swifter amount of time, they were clinging to one another like lovers, unable to separate from one another. The rest of their evening was anything but boring.

Meanwhile, at the hospital Dr. Kobe was busy mapping out the treatment plan that he was to ensue with his wayward patient over the following few days. Treatment would begin immediately; the question was merely of where to begin. Talking to the young man without his nurse present had already been proven most difficult. The man sighed in frustration as he leaned back in his chair, observing a photograph of his wife that he kept on his desk top.

Kobe was a good man. His wish was to help people; his concern for the wellbeing of others was genuine. Though he didn't want to admit it, there had been times when he'd wanted nothing more than to let this patient go. He knew, though, that with time things would improve. The least he could do was hope for a better future. Compared with Mike's record over the last few years, Zoey's presence had made his recovery a mounting success. He was sleeping more, taking his medicine when asked, showering, and taking better care of his well-being in general. The spunky little redheaded nurse was the best thing that the boy had ever asked for. The only thing that worried him was how he reverted to his previous state whenever she was absent for longer durations of time. He was becoming incredibly dependent; better than the complete distrust he'd had for everyone else, but still unbelievably unhealthy. It was his hope that maybe his observations were wrong, and that the few sessions he planned to have with Mike would prove exactly that. He was wishing for a Christmas Miracle.

He followed his treatment plan accordingly. Today, he was visiting Mike's cell personally. As he crossed the threshold into the younger man's territory, he was greeted by a heavy scowl.

"Well, what's this? A visit from the local quack? How quaint," the young man scoffed, eyes cast to the ceiling. "What the hell could you possibly want?" At least he was being acknowledged for once, rather than ignored. He quickly scribbled a note across his clipboard before he smiled, doing his best to remain patient.

"Your nurse will be staying home for the Holidays, so I am resuming your treatment in her absence." The doctor sat quietly, folding his hands in his lap as he waited for a response. The boy's expression seemed to lose its grip for a moment, pure fear settling in his eyes for only a fraction of a second before he snorted.

"So what? I'm not gonna do you any favors."

"I see," Dr. Kobe nodded his approval. He'd expected hostile treatment, but the turnout so far was not bad at all. Again, he scribbled down all movements and expressions for further review. The only way that he could think of to get him to open up was to turn the subject away from him, to something he could objectify. "How do you feel about the treatment you've received so far with your nurse?" He shut his mouth tight for a moment before he rubbed his temples.

"She makes me nervous." The good doctor's head shot up, bringing his eyes to his patient. He shifted in his chair to lean forward a bit, hands clasping tightly together once more as his eyes widened fractionally with curiosity.

"Does she, now? Please elaborate."

"I don't know what you want me to say," he snapped, growing more and more irritated. "I feel secure. But at the same time I don't feel like myself. I want to kill her. I want to keep her. My very own special 'friend.'" Dr. Kobe wrote it down, frowning slightly as he went. As he looked back at Mike, though, he wiped his face clean of concern and put a smile back in place.

"I hope you realize that if you did physically attack her, she would have to be removed from your case." _Although fixation is just as dangerous, _he thought to himself, but made no move to voice his opinion.

"I don't want that," he murmured, frustrated. He slunk away from the doctor, pulling himself into a ball in the corner. "I don't want to be here." For the first time since his arrival at the hospital, Mike seemed unsure of himself; afraid of something. Though he wasn't the same kid who had arrived from juvie, he was not as dangerous as he'd previously exhibited. This had to be Zoey's work, surely. The doctor smiled gently and reached out to pat the boy quickly on the shoulder.

"Of course you don't. That's why Nurse Zoey and I are devoted to your treatment. That way, someday you may be able to rejoin society again with a clean bill of health." He shrunk away from the man's touch, face curling in disgust.

"Don't touch me," he spat, teeth clenched. "I know _you'll_ never let me out of here. _Never_. Zoey, maybe. But not you." He quickly put his hand back in his lap and frowned, eyes softening.

"I'm sorry you feel that way," he told him gently, honestly. "I truly want nothing more than for all of my patients to get better."

"You make me sick," the patient grumbled. "I'll show you 'better.'" There was a duration of silence between the two before the doctor sighed.

"You seem to be making fine progress, Mike. I hope you can keep up the good work, even with your nurse away." He smiled, receiving nothing but a glare in return, as he stood. "You don't have to be afraid. I will _personally_ sign your release form when the time comes." The boy merely laughed, shaking his head.

"I'm sure you will, Dr. _Cob_," he sneered, purposely mispronouncing his name.

"That's Dr. Kobe," he said with a sigh. "As in Co-bee. Is it too hard to show a little respect for those trying to help you?" The younger man bit his tongue as the doctor dished out his pills. "I'll leave you to your own devices. I need you to take your medication before I go. Can you do that?"

"I'm perfectly capable of taking them without you here." He crossed his arms, watching him with complete animosity.

"I don't trust you to do that." Their eyes locked for a moment before the boy looked away and extended his hand.

"Fine. I'll take the damned, mind numbing things." The doctor smiled softly, and placed them in his patient's outstretched palm, feeling quite satisfied with himself as he popped them into his mouth. As promised, he left the boy to himself, bothering him no farther.

No sooner than Kobe had disappeared out the door, the pills were spit back out into the same palm that had first received them. Mal smiled softly, chuckling to himself as he got down on his hands and knees. He crawled beneath his cot and slipped his fingers along the concrete until he found the familiar crack. He slowly peeled back the offending party before a piece of the floor came loose, and a hole became visible. Slowly, he emptied the contents of his palm into the hole. Two months worth of pills littered the bottom of the gap. He snickered softly before replacing the missing piece.

Who needed medication? The greatest medicine he could think of was laughter.

"Merry fuckin' Christmas."


	5. Mr Brightside

_GAHHH WE BARELY MADE THE DEADLINE!_

_Hey, guys, I hope you all enjoyed your holiday. As promised, here's chapter five. Bialy and I have been roleplaying back and forth brainstorming ideas for this chapter; we've been having way, way too much fun with this dark fic xD_

_I got a few comments about the meds from last chapter. Which made me incredibly happy. The real question is this, though; is Mal more or less sane while on his pills? I can't decide if the pills make him less crazy or more so. Because he has been making 'progress' without taking them. I guess we'll just have to see._

_Also, a real quick question for you guys; I'm beginning to worry about the rating on this story. Should I up it to M, or leave it T? You tell me._

Chapter Five - Mr. Brightside

"You can't be serious," she groaned, glaring at him with the utmost of disbelief. Zoey and Duncan had been incredibly happy together; they were on 'I love you' terms at this point. However, this morning was filled with a heated discussion. She couldn't believe her ears when he mentioned that she'd needed some time off.

"You're overworking yourself," he said, eyebrows raising with a frown. "And for what? A looney!"

"For good reason!" she cried, throwing her hands up in frustration. "He's _so_ close to being ready for release. Don't you understand? He's getting better."

"He's no better than when you started," he grumbled. "With all the stories you've told me, I doubt he'll_ ever_ be better. He's a lost cause. He's _nuts_."

"You're wrong," she hissed, brow furrowing. "I know him better than anyone else. You don't get to pass that judgement on him."

"You're _obsessed_, Zoey. One hundred percent obsessed. It's beginning to scare me. I'm worried about you."

"I am _not_ obsessed. Why on earth would you worry? I'm only doing my job! I'm taking care of a man who _needs_ me. Don't you understand?" She crossed her arms, exasperated. She could hardly believe that this conversation was happening. This had to be some sort of a joke.

"Zoey,_ I'm_ a man who needs you," he uttered, looking hurt and upset. "Don't I matter at all? You spend more and more time at that hospital. By the time you get home, you don't want to do anything with me. I haven't taken you out on a date in five months. We haven't sat down to dinner in two. It's like you and I are strangers sharing a bed!"

"_You_ can take care of yourself," she muttered, eyes narrowing at him. "My patient is helpless. He _needs_ my attention, and I _will_ give it to him."

"What do you expect me to do? Sit around here all day, waiting for you to come home-wanting nothing more than to see you _smile_-and just." He groaned, rubbing his temples. "I'm tired of feeling so alone here." Her hands flew up in the air, eyes rolling dramatically.

"Then here's an idea: find a hobby. Stop expecting me to sacrifice my job for you. My work comes first. That's it."

"Well, excuse me for thinking that you might make an exception for me. God knows I've made plenty for you." He clenched his jaw. "I love you, Zo. Or don't you even realize that anymore? I'm doing my best not to be selfish, but it's hard when the girl you're crazy about is nuts for somebody else; somebody I don't even know, that I've never met and that I never_ will_ meet. I'm losing you to an invisible enemy." She froze at the accusation, and put her hands down.

"I do know that," she whispered, voice low, but with an intensity that made it sound much louder than it truly was. "I don't understand why you don't trust me. It's like you don't _want_ to trust me. I'm not going off to work to engage in some _secret affair_ with my patient." Her eyes welled up. It wasn't that she was sad, either. She held all this anger for the pointlessness of the argument, but what was she supposed to do? Hit him, scream, yell?

"I never said you did!" He was exasperated at this point. "I'm just. Lonely. You're never here. I have nothing else. You're everything to me." He rubbed his eyes with his thumbs. "But no matter what I do, I always come second for you. I'm _not_ everything to you. I'm just a small_ piece_ of everything that you can live without, if worse comes to worse." Her expression blanked, and she turned her head away, refusing to look at him.

"If that's what you think, then I guess we don't really know each other at all."

"You _just_ told me. Work comes first." He shoved his hands in his pockets. "I can take a hint."

"Yes, it does. I didn't think you needed a hint. I thought you would've known how important he is to me from the start. I mean-my job. I'm helping people get better. They get to go live proper lives because of people like me, who are willing to sacrifice a little time for the greater good." There was a long silence that passed at that moment; in that silence, he softened, watching her with a broken, beaten sadness in his eyes. In a way, she knew the way she had been treating him was wrong, but she beat it down. She was helping people, saving people. She convinced herself that her sacrifice was the right thing. She was doing the right thing. Right?

"Look, I'm sorry," he murmured, heaving a sigh. He felt immensely guilty for causing the expression on her face. Her mouth had scrunched up, and her eyes had begun to brim with frustration. "Just… go to work. I shouldn't hold you up. I know it's important to you." She knit her eyebrows together, biting her bottom lip in an attempt to suppress her angry tears. She grabbed her keys from the counter, hands shaking with fury all the while, before she stomped out of the kitchen and to her car.

The whole morning had been a bust. The past few months had been absolutely horrible. Though things at the hospital seemed to be improving for her patient, her relationship with Duncan had become increasingly strained. Arguments like this had been rocking the house for several weeks now, and it was getting the best of her. She was worried about herself; was there something wrong with her? Had she been neglectful of him?

She arrived at the hospital with a sniffle. Though she'd managed to make it to her place of work without shedding a tear, she couldn't stop herself as she pulled into her parking space. She let her head fall against the steering wheel and began to sob. She couldn't believe herself; she was a wreck. What on earth had she done to deserve this? She did her best to be a good lover. She was a good girl. She worked hard; harder than she probably should have. Maybe he was right. Maybe _she_ did have a problem.

She took a few minutes to wipe her eyes and regain her composure. She quickly fixed her makeup and ran a hand through her hair. Pulling her keys from the ignition, she stuffed them in her purse and took a deep breath. It was time for work; leaving her emotions at the door was her current priority. She had to make sure that she didn't allow them to get in the way of her job.

Though she passed through the hallways with a determined expression upon her feminine features, she couldn't suppress her lip from quivering from time to time. As she slipped into Mal's cell, she pasted a smile over her miserable visage. He looked up at her with a slight scowl before he stood.

"Hey," she murmured, averting her gaze from his. He cleared his throat before he frowned.

"Hey," he replied. For a moment, there was nothing but silence as he waited for her to say something. _Anything_. When not a word escaped her, he took a step closer. "You alright, there?"

"Fine," she replied, stepping further inside. "I'm fine." She kept her gaze averted from his, not daring to look him in the eye. She looked as though she were being smothered by a wet blanket. It bothered him, seeing her without her usual spunk and chipper.

"You're lying," he accused, looking less than impressed with her performance. "I can tell."

"I'm not the focus here. You're the patient, not me." She tried enforcing her place, but her voice wavered with uncertainty. Her entire form had slumped over, looking utterly defeated.

"How am I supposed to focus on myself when there's a dead weight in the middle of the room? You're a black hole right now." He raised an eyebrow, growing less amused by the minute. "What's wrong with you?"

"I'm not going there, Mal," she told him simply, whispering. "I'm here to take care of you, okay? Just let me do that and I'll be out of the way." He stared at her with an expression of sheer confusion.

"I don't want you to take care of me right now. You're hardly capable of taking care of yourself." He looked her over with a grimace. "Obviously."

"Just let me, okay? I'll have to get Dr. Kobe if you don't let me, and I don't want to talk to him anymore than you do right now."

"What the _hell_ is your problem?" He glared, folding his arms across his torso. "I've never seen you like this. Where's my Zoey? What have you done with her?"

"Just drop it, Mal," she whimpered, clutching her head. "Please, just stop." She looked up at him, and their eyes locked for a moment before she-once more-burst into tears. His eyebrows shot into his hairline, entirely surprised by her reaction. She collapsed against him, buried her face in his chest. Slowly, he wrapped his arms about her.

"I'm so sorry," she whimpered as he stroked her hair, more than a bit puzzled by what was going on. Was she upset with him? Had he done something wrong? He couldn't recall anything he'd done. Then again, she was apologizing to him. Certainly she hadn't done anything.

"It's okay," he murmured. "Come here. What's the matter?" He sat them both down on the cot, holding her by the shoulders so that he could get a good look at her. His eyes narrowed a bit at her response.

"I-I can't-I just." She sniffled, wiping her eyes, attempting to calm herself. "I like it here, with you." He frowned, cocking his head a bit.

"That doesn't make any sense," he grumbled. "How is that any reason to cry? Settle down, alright? Talk straight."

"He and I-we got in an argument about you," she uttered with another sniffle. He tensed.

"You and who? Dr. Kobe? Is he going to take you away?" He grit his teeth. "I swear, I'll-"

"No. No, not Kobe," she murmured. "My boyfriend. He doesn't like this arrangement. He thinks you and I spend too much time together."

"Boyfriend?" He glowered, brow furrowing. "That's none of his business." She watched him with a small frown before she sighed softly.

"I guess it sort of is," she replied. "We live together. We should be spending time together."

"But you'd rather be here."

"I never said that," she murmured, pursing her lips.

"Actions speak louder than words, Zoey. If you'd wanted to be anywhere else, you wouldn't be here." He wiped away a tear from her eye with the tip of his thumb. "Even a sociopath can tell what others want."

"I don't think you're a sociopath," she replied, eyes soft. He held her cheek, watching her with a bit of tenderness behind his stony gaze. "I think you deserve to be out of here."

"I think you're wrong. As much as I would like to leave." He closed his eyes and leaned against the wall, looking tired. "I shouldn't." She ran a hand through her hair and smiled at him with a bit of pride. It was hidden well, but there nonetheless.

"I don't. I believe in your recovery. If I didn't, I wouldn't be here. I would've transferred to another patient a long time ago."

"If you say so," he drawled, opening his eyes and looking bored. She leaned her head forward to look at him, curious.

"At least tell me why you don't think you should be let out. I thought it was almost your dream to get away from Dr. Kobe and finally have a life outside."

"It is," he uttered. "But I don't think I'm capable. I still have my moments when I, you know, want to do things." He smiled darkly. "Things that most would consider 'murderous."

"Even people outside of this place have thoughts like that." She smiled, taking his hand in hers. "It's completely normal. All that matters is that you can control it and get help when you think you can't."

"Who says I want help?" He shrugged before he sat up a bit.

"No one. I just hope you really do, or else I have no reason to be here. I'm fighting with people I care about to stay here with you like I do." She frowned, voice lowering. "Please don't make everything I've been trying to do in vain." He watched her with a frown before he looked away.

"I guess I can try to be good," he admitted. "For once. For now. But you have to make a promise first."

"Okay," she sat up straight, watching him.

"You're my only friend," he said, voice lowering a bit, cracking a smile, though he didn't really want to. "You're the only one who's taken care of me without expecting anything in return. Promise me something. Please." She smiled even wider, nodding her encouragement at him.

"Anything you'd like, just say the word."

"If I ever get out of here," he said. "Promise me you'll still be my friend. Something_ I_ can take care of for once. I can't do shit in here. But out there, the possibilities are endless."

"I can do that. I was worried that when you got out, you wouldn't want anything to do with me. That's usually the case with a lot of patients." Her expression became serene. She _had_ been right. If he ever got out, Duncan could see him in person. Then he'd know that she'd been doing the right thing all along. He would understand. She could prove her worth; she could prove _his_ worth. He wasn't so terrible. He was worth her time; worth redemption.

"I want to know you," he said, doing his best to seem sincere. Expressing himself was still a challenge. She chose not to see that he wasn't completely truthful, focusing on the fact that he was _trying_.

"Then, we can start now," she replied, folding her hands over her lap. "What do you want to know?"

"Hm..." A smile crept to his lips. "Where will I go to visit you?" She thought for a moment, before she bit her lip and brought out her notepad and a pen. She scribbled quickly, writing down her phone number and the name of her street.

"Here's my cellphone. I won't give you my full address because until you're released, that's against the rules, but at least if I'm not here for some reason when you are, you'll know where I am. After that, I can help get you on your feet." He stared at the paper, frowning a bit.

"Isn't this against the rules anyway, though? You're not supposed to release any of your personal information to your patients." He raised his eyebrows, and watched her carefully. She smiled, abashed.

"You'll be out of here sooner or later," she responded, cheeks flushing a bit with embarrassment. "They would've given you my information when you got out, anyways. You have to have a hotline to someone in the hospital in case you're ever in any need of assistance." He looked back up at her, incredulous, before he smiled a little.

"Yeah. Okay."

He was much more gentle with her after this encounter with her emotions. Though she would often come to work drained, she always left more energized than before. Time spent at the hospital steadily increased and became less tedious than time spent at home. She was becoming enchanted with him, the way he treated her. Her mind drifted more than once to what things could've been if they'd met under different circumstances. Oh, if only. She wished that she still found the one she _should_ be with as intriguing and fascinating as this man. But she couldn't. Mal was much more dangerous; twice as bold. And he was forbidden. Still, her attraction for him only grew. He was kind to her; made her feel special. She was the only one he tolerated. She was _special_ with him.

Meanwhile, back at home, she was subject to criticism and despair. Things really had hit rock bottom between her and Duncan. He'd moved his pillow to the couch, and did his best to avoid being home when she was. He stayed out late, came home drunk, passed out on the couch, and then repeated the cycle.

Mal, however, had been doing his best to impress her, as well. He'd been taking the time to be extra courteous to his doctor. Kobe, though surprised, accepted his gestures happily, a fondness for the patient growing. He was confident that soon, Michael would be ready to leave the facility and start himself a life of his own. With every milestone Mike hit, Dr. Kobe's confidence in him grew, and his faith in Zoey followed.

They sat in the doctor's office, awaiting his review of their latest progress. Mal had perched himself on the couch, and Zoey had decided to occupy the seat closest to him. Kobe regarded them with an expression of sheer pride and joy.

"I'm glad to see that you two are making such progress," he said. Though he did his best to avoid contact with the patient, monthly checkups were required. Of course, the nurse never left his side; she'd accompanied him once more. Their bond was unnaturally strong; they were damn near _inseparable_. However, the doctor knew better than to question their treatment plan. It was getting the job done; that was what mattered.

"Give all of the credit to Zoey," the boy praised. "I wouldn't have been able to do any of it without her." He offered the devil's smile.

"Then I am all the more happy that this arrangement was made in the first place. I've never seen such high results from you with any other person. People like you are what we need," he agreed, nodding his assent to Zoey.

"She's just my cup of tea, I suppose. I couldn't ask for anyone more." He paused to think for a moment. "Wonderful." He'd never said that about anybody before. She looked away, cheeks flushing. It became obvious that she preferred his approval over the doctor's. Kobe brushed it off as if it were nothing, remaining focused on the progress that they'd been making. It was beyond miraculous.

"It's been six years, Michael. I've seen you in places that I_ never_ would have thought you capable of recovering from. But you've proven me wrong on many, many levels. I believe your time here at Grangington is coming to a close. I couldn't be more proud."

"And neither could I," Zoey added, smiling, and ran her hand down his arm. She lingered for a moment before turning back to the doctor, beaming. "When we first started, I didn't think I could help him anymore than you could, sir, but I'm glad I was wrong." Zoe was a good girl. Again, the good doctor ignored her gestures and took it as another sign that Mike accepted the touch. Before, he would have bitten off that hand before he let it touch him.

"Mike. What would you say if we made this your very last night here?" The man raised his eyebrows at that, looking more than a bit interested. "All we have to do is fill out some paperwork, and you'll be free to go. I have faith that you'll do the right things once you're outside these walls. As you have no living family listed, with her permission of course, we can release you into Zoey's care. She'll have to come check in with you at the Halfway Home, but that will be temporary."

"You mean to say," he spoke with caution. "That after a while, I'll be able to live with her?" He cast a glance in her direction, trying not to look too hopeful.

"Only long enough to help you into a permanent settlement of your choice. The Halfway Home is a test to see that you'll be able to live alone, first." He nodded slowly, completely interested in what the doctor was saying. "Good. If you'll excuse me, I'll just go get those papers." He smiled brightly at the nurse and her patient before he darted off, excitement clear.

"You did it!" Zoey exclaimed as soon as the doctor had left, bouncing up and down in her seat. "I-I'm just. I'm so happy for you." He looked over at her, a smug smile gracing his features.

"All thanks to you. You're the only thing keeping me, er, sane here. Really." He studied her features, calm and composed as ever he could be.

"I have a lot of things to show you." She smiled. "You've missed a lot over the years, and I'm going to show you everything." He smiled back at her, watching her with a careful eye.

"Who better to show me than the girl who saved me?" He leaned his head against the back of the couch, looking relaxed and ready for the world.

"I didn't save you. I just helped you save yourself." She looked him in the eyes, completely serious. "You made the choice to change. I admire you so much for that."

"I wouldn't have made that choice without you." He shrugged, crossing his arms. "You've taken more responsibility for me than anybody else. I know I can be a handful." She rested her hand upon his cheek, regarding him with adoration.

"You just needed a push sometimes. I was glad to give it to you." He watched her with an expression of admiration mixed with confusion. She was the most beautiful thing ever to touch him. So soft, pale, and innocent. His most precious treasure and toy. She smiled. She liked the way he looked at her. She liked the way that she was the only one in his world, and especially that he had no desire to add others into it. She didn't like it whenever he would push her away, but she did like how she always needled her way back in, in the end.

"I'm glad we met," she murmured truthfully. He watched her, a smile spreading across his lips.

"I'm glad, too." The next thing that happened caught them both quite by surprise. If she was being completely honest with herself, even then, the move hadn't been something she'd planned. She didn't really think about it; it hadn't even been a thought at all, at the time. She chocked it up to her subconscious on later thought, because in reality she'd had no idea what she was doing. She rocketed forward, crashing into him awkwardly. She didn't knock him backward, no; she was too small for that, but the surprise had hit him with the desired effect. When her lips touched his, she didn't stop. She didn't think. He didn't need to kiss her back if he didn't want to. This was her moment, not his.

It took him a moment to register what exactly was happening. With widened eyes, he fell back a bit, not yet able to find the strength to make a decision. After a moment's debate, however, he allowed his lips to part, consuming whatever affection she was willing to feed him. She was engulfed in a bliss that she'd never before experienced; his warm, passionate, aggressive embrace captivated her. Never before had she attained something so fierce and alive; _she'd_ never felt so alive. This feeling was entirely new to her, and it felt good.

Their arms danced around one another as they fought to hold one another closer. Her chest pressed into his, and his hands fell to the small of her back. Her fingers twirled into his locks, bringing him closer to her. Her eyes snapped open as his lips trailed from hers to her neck, and he began to nibble. She pulled away a bit, eyes wide with terror. Neither had the time to realize that the door had swung open. In an instant, she was trying to disengage herself from him, pull away. The doctor stared, mortified.

"No," she murmured, pushing the patient away by the chest. "No, I'm sorry, that was a mistake. That was a big mistake."

The scene that he had come to face was one that he wished he'd never seen at all. The nurse was straddling Michael's lap, her palms pressed into his torso, his teeth sunk into the soft flesh of her neck. Though it was obvious that she was now trying to correct this, it was just as obvious that she had been partaking in the sinful pleasures that he'd presented her. Kobe's face paled, his confidence evaporating, his faith crushed.

"What the _hell_ is going on in here!" Kobe's calm had shattered, and the man stood red-faced in the wake of the two. When he turned to Zoey, and began to yell, she then knew true fear. "I knew something was going on between you two! I didn't want to believe it, though. I gave you the benefit of the doubt out; trust as a professional! I have been more liberal with your treatment with him because I saw improvement, but I cannot condone this!"

"No, I-" Dr. Kobe cut her off with a simple gesture of the hand, eyes narrowed. He spoke softly this time, but it wasn't any better than yelling. It was the calm before the storm.

"No more. _Zoey_. If you want a chance at keeping your job here, _put him back in his room immediately_. You'll have five minutes. I'll be waiting, here, in _my_ office." The girl's heart shattered, her blood running cold, as she took her patient by the hand and hesitantly led him from the room.

"Zoey," he whispered, eyes wide and wild. "Zoey, please, we don't need this. We can-we can get out of here. Who needs Kobe? Who needs him? It-It could be just you and me. Just you and me! I don't need anybody else. I need _you_."

"This was wrong," she muttered quickly, voice shaking. "This was wrong. No. I-I can't do this. I have a life. I have a boyfriend. I'm_ happy_."

"Like hell you are. We were this close." He held up his fingers, growing more and more desperate to win her favor. "Zoey, please." Her eyes grew wide, manic.

"I shouldn't have done that. I'm sorry. That was a mistake. A mistake." He was too shocked to fight as she returned him to his cell. "I'm sorry, Ma- Mike. Please, please find it somewhere in your heart to forgive me." Before he had time to think, the heavy door shut behind her, and locked. He was silent for a moment before his anger caught up with his mind.

"Zoey." He slammed into the door. "ZOEY, YOU AWFUL BITCH! LET ME OUT! LET ME OUT, DAMNIT! ZOEY!_ ZOEY!_ I'LL KILL YOU!" She didn't dare to turn back, her heart dampening with each step she took down the hallway. As she reached Kobe's office, she removed her badge, and then stepped inside.

"I'm sorry, Doctor," she murmured. "I've behaved inappropriately. I understand that I, um. I should probably hand this over." She placed the piece of plastic face down on his desk. He refused to look at the young woman, but she could see the disappointment. He took the badge and slipped it into his drawer.

"Get your stuff for now and go home. I don't want to talk about this anymore, at the moment." The anger was softer now, but it was still under the surface. "I'll call you back in to talk to me about this in a few weeks. This isn't the first time something like this has happened, but I am thoroughly upset that this was from you. I just don't… Regardless, he will never be your patient again, if you continue to work here. You will work strictly with female patients if we choose to have you back. Please don't hold your hopes up, though." He faced her, a hard-set grimace in place. "I'd begin to look for another job in case things don't turn out the way you want them to." She nodded silently, swallowing a whimper.

"Yes sir," she whispered, head hanging low.

"This is a special case and I will take this into consideration at a later time. For now, please- Just leave." She opened her mouth to say something, but nothing escaped her throat but a choke. She closed her eyes and rushed from the office. Down the hallway, she could still hear the deranged man screaming for her.

"I SWEAR TO GOD! I'LL MURDER YOU! I'LL KILL YOU, ZOEY! JUST YOU WAIT, BITCH! I'M COMING FOR YOU!"

She buried her head in her hands as she went. Duncan had been right. She should've trusted him, and instead she'd done exactly what he'd seemed to be afraid of. What sort of demons had she unleashed? She couldn't think of reasons or justifications anymore. When she climbed into her car, she simply sat and stared at her reflection in the rearview mirror before swatting it away with her hand.

"What have I done."

Only time would tell.


	6. Killer In The Hallway

_I'm really enjoying myself with this story, you guys. I love hearing what you guys are saying. I've upped this to literature M because Mal is a sick bastard and so am I xD Ah, well. At least we'll be able to get away with more._

_**JUST SO YOU ALL HAVE A FAIR WARNING, THIS CHAPTER IS FAIRLY DEMENTED, VIOLENT, AND GORY. SO... DON'T BE MAD AT ME. I GAVE YOU A HEADS UP. IF YOU DON'T READ THE AUTHOR'S NOTES ON STORIES, THAT'S YOUR PROBLEM, NOT MINE.**_

_Somebody (sunshineg9) mentioned last chapter that this story reminded them of Harley Quinn and the Joker. Which is funny because they're partial inspiration for this story XD sort of backwards though._

_As usual, I want to thank you guys for your continued support, follows, favorites and reviews. You have no idea how much it means to Bialy and I. Always eager to please! Since you guys are so awesome, we decided to give you this chapter early. All the love! Aw yeah, buddy._

_(Pssssss... I'm super excited right now. THE PERSONALITIES ARE FINALLY CLASSIFIED AS THEIR OWN CHARACTERS GAHHH.)_

_~Moony and Bialy_

Chapter Six - Killer In The Hallway

He wiped the blood from his eyes, panting. He was incredibly satisfied with the number he'd done on the doctor. The body was nothing more than a vessel now; cold, limp and dead. An empty shell. His hands were raw and sore now, but the blood was well worth every bruise and busted knuckle. He'd done this all by himself; now it was _her_ turn to get a taste of his medicine.

It had been a total of only ninety minutes since he'd been locked in his cell once more. And he wasn't happy. He'd screamed for her for the first half an hour before he resigned to moaning pitifully and banging the back of his head against the door.

"You dumb bitch," he groaned, pulling his knees to his chest. "I'll kill you. I'll make you suffer. Zoey." He continued wallowing for quite some time before his eyes fell upon his cot. He pacified himself for a moment, eyeing the hole under his sleeping space. He wondered momentarily: _I could end this so quickly. _Moments later, he was crawling under the little bed on his hands and knees, in hopes of an easy escape.

Meanwhile, Kobe, in his office, had buried his head in his hands. Of all the people in the hospital to do something like this, he'd never imagined that Zoey would resort to something so low. He'd particularly liked that girl, really. Sighing, he reached into his desk and pulled out her badge, studying her picture. It was very unfortunate. She had an incredible amount of potential; she'd proven her ability to work with others and help them to progress, and now it was all going to waste. He rubbed his temples, shaking his head as he set down the badge and turned his attention to the picture of his wife that he kept on his desk.

"What am I supposed to do?" he asked himself, looking more worn out than anything. "So many rules broken. Please don't look at me like that." He directed his request to the photograph before he rested his forehead in his palms once more, trying to ease the strain on his mind. They'd have to find the boy a new caretaker; and this time it would not be one of _his choosing_.

His anger had faded to pure disappointment and betrayal as his mind wandered to the redhead. He had sat in the office since she'd skipped out, debating with himself over what he should do regarding the young nurse. The best thing to do, he supposed, would be to transfer her to a new hospital. He should have known better than to trust Michael with such a big decision. It had seemed like such a good idea, at the time. Now, he realized that it was all just a terrible idea. He sighed softly and stood from his desk, nervously picking at his nails. He had to have a word with his patient; try to help him to understand why what had happened was entirely wrong.

Mal had scooped out the contents of the pill hole, which now filled his cupped hands. Several still littered the bottom of the hole; that was alright though. It would take only half of these for him to overdose. He crawled out from under his bed on his hands and knees before he stood up, back still to the door. Slowly, he counted them out, just like _she_ would have.

"Don't worry," he said gently to himself. "These will make you feel all better." He caressed the pills with a thumb, smiling his twisted, maddened smile. After a moment, however, he was jarred from his thoughts. He quickly shoved the pills into his pockets as he heard the door swing open and the doctor entered the room.

"Michael, we need to talk," Kobe's voice carried from the doorway, sounding tired and upset. The anger had been sapped from his voice, a wariness replacing it.

"Oh? What about, _Cob_?" he sneered in reply. "Is there something _else_ that's wrong with me? Need to give me a lobotomy? You might as well." He turned around to face the man, arms folded tight against his chest.

"No, no. Nothing of that nature," he replied with a sigh. "We need to discuss your next nurse."

"I don't want another nurse. I want _Zoey_."

"That is unacceptable." The man ran a hand through his hair. "She's unsuitable to take care of your needs. She's _fixated_ with you; it's unhealthy for the both of you."

"Like hell," the patient growled. Neither had a chance to blink before the doctor's head was thrown back against the wall. It took a moment for him to process that the younger man's fist had planted hard against his cheek. It knocked him back; he lost his balance, and he fell to the concrete, ears ringing.

"I DON'T WANT ANYBODY ELSE!" The screams were amplified with each blow. The doctor cried out, trying to scramble away, but he found himself pinned to the floor with a calloused hand.

"You son of a _bitch_!" the boy hissed, eyes wide and wild. "Bring her back! I want her! I _want_ her!"

"Stop-!" the man sputtered. "Can't. Breathe!" His face had begun to swell, and his nose was now fixed at a crooked angle. With a busted lip and a bleeding brow, his face was stained red.

"You think you can just take her away," the boy murmured, manic. "You think you can just shove me back into the dark corner. Well, I have news for you. I am _not_ Michael. I will _not_ be shoved in the corner anymore."

He pulled the medication from his pocket, two months' worth, gritting his teeth. He held the man down by the hair.

"Please, Mike," the man pleaded, wheezing. "Don't do this. Don't. I have so many people to take care of. You included! Think about how _far_ you've come. You're _above_ this."

"You never took care of me, and I'm no better than when I started here," he spat. "All you did was give me these. I was saving them for myself, in case I ever got tired of being here, but I think you deserve them more; let's see how you like it when somebody shoves pills down _your_ throat." He grabbed the man's broken nose and squeezed his nostrils together. After a few moments of struggle, the man's jaw unhinged to take in a ragged breath. He was greeted with a variety of different prescribed medicines, all of them contradicting one another. It was too much for one body to handle all at once. If Mal didn't kill him first, he'd have a seizure from toxic shock, die of overdose. The sociopath, however, wrapped his fingers about the man's throat.

"I want to watch the light fade from your eyes," he said coolly. "Since you took the light from mine. A fair trade, I'd say."

The man convulsed on the floor, muscles spasming from the shock of all the pain, as the breath left his lungs. He lurched forward, eyes widening as he struggled to escape the boy's grasp.

The madman slowly tightened his grip, pushing the doctor's head back. After the first minute of being without air his eyes had glazed over to a glassy emptiness that had not existed before. After three minutes of struggling, the man, Mal decided, was dead. Slowly, he removed his fingers from the puffy, bruised tissue that was the doctor's neck, and wiped his mouth. The only thing left to do was find the rest of Zoey's information. All he needed was the house number. Then he would show her. Oh, how he'd show her.

He pulled the cell key from the doctor's stiff fingers and brushed himself off as he stood. He looked the man over one more time before he shrugged and stepped over him. He slipped from the cell with ease and hurried down the hall while it was clear. He pulled the little piece of paper with Zoey's number from his pocket as he entered the doctor's office and set it down on the table. Grabbing the phone from the desk, he dialed the number that she'd scribbled down. It rang only twice before it went to voicemail. He scowled, not even bothering to leave a message and hung up the phone, beginning to search for her file. He searched through drawer after drawer, growing more and more impatient with each time he came up empty handed.

He turned his attention to rummaging through the filing cabinets; that was where the gold was. His dark smile flitted across his features as he opened the Manila envelope that had her name label on the front. Dumping its contents onto the doctor's desk, he whistled softly to himself, and began to paw his way through the papers until he found her personal information.

"Mh, lovely. 1727 Birchwood Way. That's not far at all." He grabbed a pen and slovenly copied down the numbers, so as not to forget. It wouldn't take long to get there on foot. He'd make her pay for abandoning him. She'd led him on. He was alone again. But not for long. He'd keep her forever; dead or alive.

Zoey had only one thing on her mind when she pulled up in the drive: how was she going to explain things to Duncan? Fortunately for her, her car was the only one there, the driveway completely empty as she parked. He wasn't home yet; she had time to think.

She plopped herself down on the couch, allowing herself to absorb the events that had taken place that day. Everything seemed like a blur; as though she were seeing it all through somebody else's eyes. She couldn't bring herself to cry. She was too numb to do much of anything, at that moment, except wait.

An hour passed, and still there was no Duncan. Kobe had called her once, but she'd dismissed him without hesitation, wishing not to speak with him. She couldn't believe herself. After all of the work that she'd done; after all of the progress she'd made; after all of the appraisals and kind words, it hadn't been enough for her. How on earth would the physical affections of a psychopath make her feel any less empty? She couldn't find any reasonable answer. She was losing everything. The life around her that she'd constructed had begun to fall apart around her the moment she'd begun to struggle with Duncan's feelings and her own. Now, _everything_ was falling and she'd ignored the problem when she'd still had the chance to fix it. It felt horrible to know that he'd been right the whole time; that every bit of struggling in their lives had been her fault. He'd been right the whole time, and she had punished him for it. Now she'd be begging for a forgiveness that she truly didn't deserve.

She sat on the couch, pondering this way for what felt like hours when finally the headlights from the driveway cast shadows across the living room. Checking the time, it was revealed that only about an hour and a half had passed since her return home. She sighed softly and rubbed her temples before she stood. It was time to apologize.

She was waiting by the door when he arrived, swinging it open for him as he came in. It was her luck that he looked sober tonight. It was a pitiful thought, but she figured that if he'd been inebriated, his forgiveness would come much easier.

"Zoey," he murmured, caught slightly by surprise. "I wasn't expecting you home so early-we need to talk." He rubbed the back of his neck awkwardly before he took a step inside.

"I was going to say the same thing," she replied quietly, keeping her head down. "I have some things I want to say."

"Yeah, me too." He swallowed a deep breath as he took her hand and led her to the couch. "Listen. I don't want you to think-this isn't me trying to. No, I just." He stumbled around like that for a moment before he found his footing.

"I'm sorry," he said finally, a little more firmly than before. "About the way I've been acting lately, I just-I dunno. I should've thought about your feelings too. I know your job's important to you. So from now on, it's important to me too, okay?" He smiled softly, looking up at her with the utmost of honesty in his eyes. Her head whipped up to look at him, mouth scrunching up.

"Don't apologize to me anymore, please. You've never done anything wrong." Her arms folded in as if she were trying to make herself smaller, make herself disappear. "You were right about everything. I should've listened to you. I've fucked everything up." He stared at her for a moment before a frown settled upon his features.

"Oh, Zo," he cooed, watching her with a sympathetic frown. "It's okay." He pulled her close to him, wrapping his arms about her with a small, encouraging smile forming on his features.

"It's not okay. Everything is so far from okay," she groaned, burying her face in his shirt. "I never should've taken this job. I should've listened to you. I ignored you, and you let me..." She trailed off, unable to find the words to say anymore.

"I'm glad you took the job," he said, frowning a bit. "Otherwise, we would've never met. You know; the whole paradox thing. I do think, though, you shouldn't have taken it as seriously as you did. It gave you a lot more trouble than it was worth." He pulled away from her a bit, holding her cheek.

"Why are you so nice to me?" She murmured, eyes growing sad. "I've made your life horrible for the last few months."

"That doesn't really matter," he replied with a shrug. "At least yours is a silent rage. I'm used to being slapped around a little. Fire. It's nice to just have somebody as calm and collected as you are for once. It's a change of scenery, and I'm enjoying the view." He gave her a soft peck on the cheek. "I love you for that." Her eyes brightened slightly with the surprise.

"I still don't know how to apologize to you for everything," she admitted but relaxed, allowing herself to look at him. Really look at him. "I'm not sure where to start."

"Let's start here, then." He smiled softly and tilted up her chin before he planted a gentle kiss upon her lips. She was hesitant for a moment before she wrapped her arms around him. He snaked his hands to her hips, nibbling gently at her bottom lip before he nuzzled into her cheek.

"See? No problem," he murmured gently in her ear. She brushed her thumb over his cheeks and smiled softly.

"I'll take your word for it." He stood up, taking her hands in his. He offered an encouraging smile.

"C'mon. Let's be adults, here," he teased mildly, kissing her fingertips before he held her hand to his cheek. "We can have some fun, and show each other how we really feel. How about that?" She flushed and smiled meekly.

"I would really like that." With that, he led her to the bedroom, looking dazed and happy. For the first time in a long time, he would hold her tight, and make her feel safe. He'd missed being able to do that; she was too busy to feel secure anymore. But now, he could change that because she would let him.

He led her up the stairs, neither of them knowing that a pair of dark eyes was watching them from the window. Mal stared in horror at the two, his heart pounding in his chest. She was so close; he could almost _taste_ her. Yet, she wasn't close enough. She wasn't close to him, she was close to that other guy-one who seemed vaguely familiar. She didn't seem to have any problem kissing two men in the same day. He snarled to himself, lips curling downward in a scowl.

He stood up from the bushes, brushing himself off, running a hand through his hair, and, in all, being rather vain for one splattered by the blood of another man. He had to look good for his girl, naturally. He knew what he wanted; he knew how he was going to get it. The only question was of how he would get inside. Did they leave their doors unlocked? The two had been so consumed with themselves earlier, the door had been closed, but not locked.

He shoved his hands into his pockets and waltzed casually up to the front door. He stared inside for a moment before he turned the handle. The door gave a satisfying click, and he pushed it open with a smug smile. Her house was bright and warm; a nice contrast to the hospital. It would've been nice to live here with her. There was no way that was possible, anymore, but he didn't seem to care much. He focused his eyes up the stairs and into the hallway, where the shadows of the young couple swayed together.

His cheeks flushed with rage, his eyes narrowing as he slowly made his assent of the stairway. That was _his_ girl in there. She was _his_ plaything, _his_ toy, _his_ perfect, innocent treasure. And she was getting ready to play with another man.

Duncan slowly lowered her onto the sheets, smiling down at her. He leaned down to kiss her jaw. Her eyes fluttered shut, her fingers wandering into his hair. They held each other for a moment; he slipped his hand up her shirt and she sighed softly. Her clothes were the first to go, and they were removed carefully, like they'd developed her naturalization into an art and twice over perfected it. She was left in nothing but her undergarments, which he was about to remove with the most delicate touch he could muster, when her body stiffened entirely, eyes widening, blood running cold.

"Well. What have we here?" Leaning against the doorframe, looking completely unimpressed, was a shaggy-haired, dark-skinned, blood-sputtered maniac. Duncan raised his head, brow furrowing a bit. He was still in a bit of a daze, not entirely aware of who was standing there, or why.

"Huh?" He sat up a bit, only to be greeted by a hand pulling him away from the girl by the hair. He was shoved up against the door, a punch aimed for his face; but the pursuer paused. "Mal?"

"Oh? Duncan? What a pleasant surprise!" The man cackled before cracking his knuckles into the other's jaw. Duncan sputtered, but shoved him off with a bought of adrenaline.

"What the hell!" he cried, brow furrowing further. "I thought you were in prison!"

"I was. I skipped out." He grinned deviously.

"Get the fuck out of my house!" He raised his fists, eyes growing wide.

"I believe this is Zoey's house," the psychopath said, casting his glance in her direction. The poor girl was too shocked to move, save for pulling the sheets about her half-naked body. "And she's mine. So this is, technically speaking, _my_ house."

"How the fuck do you even know her?" the punk spat.

"Didn't she tell you about me?" His face fell back into a scowl. "I'm her patient. She's my nurse. And I want her back." Duncan spun around to stare at her, looking surprised and confused. This was not something that he had expected. While he was distracted, another punch flew his way and landed on his cheek, sending him staggering.

"You son of a _bitch_!" he yelled, cupping his cheek. "Hold still so I can knock the_ rest _of your damned teeth out!" He balled his fists once more and raged forward, aiming for Mal's jaw. The patient's tongue flicked self consciously across the gap between his teeth before he grimaced.

"Aw, just like in _prison_, right?" The younger man raised an eyebrow, ducking out of the way and pulling something sleek and metallic from his back pocket. "This isn't prison, Duncan. The only way you'll be able to hurt me is if I don't stab you in the back first." He brought the knife down, slashing him across the shoulder. He cried out in pain, jumping back a bit.

"You never did fight fair," he snarled, fingers digging into the wound in an attempt to shield it from the stinging air. He clenched his jaw, trembling with pain. He was about to rush forward for more when Zoey's voice rang out around the two.

"Stop!" When she had Mal's attention she slowly moved across the bed until she was an arm's length away, voice dropping low. She was shaking. She cast her eye in Duncan's direction. He took the hint, slipping out of the room. "Mal. Just please. Stop. Why are you here? You should be at the hospital." He laughed mirthlessly.

"There's _nothing_ for me there. There's no _doctor_ who can help me. There are no _pills_ that can tame me. The hospital was only making me crazier." He leaned down until they were eye level, and a smile broke out across his face, wild and insane. "I'm here for _you_, Zoey. You left me. The only thing I had left, and you _abandoned_ me like I'm some sort of a-... a disease!" He laughed again. She reached out to touch his arm, but it wasn't like it had been earlier that day. She was touching him out of a necessity, like she didn't want to in the first place.

"What I did earlier was wrong." She told him gently. "As your nurse, I never should've-"

"Why'd it feel so perfect, then?" he hissed, cutting her off mid-sentence. "Why'd it feel so right? You felt it too! I _saw_ you! I saw you smile, like it was the greatest thing you'd ever done until that prick of a doctor had to ruin it." He swatted her hand away from his arm, jaw set hard. His eyes were burning with both fury and passion; it was hard to tell what he was going to do next. She clutched her hand to her chest.

"What I did was selfish, but it wasn't right." She hid her fear well, forcing herself to stand from the bedside so that their chests were pressed up against one another. She was inflated with a false confidence as he pulled back a bit, eyes narrowed. "I never should have done that. I ruined your chances of getting out, and I'm sorry for that, but you can't just come into my home." He stared her in the eye, one eyebrow raised, studying her carefully. After a moment's debate, he spoke.

"Kiss or kill?" He raised his knife, tilting her chin up with it, eyes narrowed to slits. "I just can't decide." Her eyes widened, darting between him and the knife. Duncan needed to hurry. She couldn't stand up to him like this forever. She was afraid he'd see it as some sort of disobedience and plunge the awful thing into her throat. She tried again, pressing herself against him, putting her hand on his cheek.

"Look at me. Please, calm down. Put the knife down. We can talk about this." He stared at her, eyes hard and untrusting. They didn't waver from hers, but for a moment, his body melded into hers. He didn't dare to remove the weapon that was glaring at her throat. Her neck tilted back to give space between herself and the blade. "Please, put the knife down." Slowly, the tip lowered, his grip on the object loosening a bit.

The extra space gave her the opportunity to hesitantly close the gap. She just needed a temporary distraction, and she didn't want to die. He crushed his lips against hers hungrily, the passion absorbing her in his fiery kiss. She willed her mouth to move against his enough to be convincing, but her eyes stayed open. They darted around looking for anyone to break him away from her. She couldn't help but notice, though, that his eyes were shut tight. The sincerity in this embrace was undeniable. For the first time ever, he was experiencing unfeigned emotion. This went on for another moment or two before his head snapped up, and his lips broke away from hers. There were footsteps in the hallway, light, but audible.

"I just called the police!" Duncan called, sliding back into the room, looking as though he were ready to tackle the psychopath to the ground. "Get over here, you-where'd he go?" His eyes widened a bit. She stared at her lover, speechless, before she turned around. The window had been pushed open wide. Sirens were carried on the wind; but there was no sound aside from that. He'd escaped. The only evidence that he'd been there in the first place was a bloodied knife at Zoey's feet, and some blood that he had accidentally smeared across her lip and cheek.

When the authorities arrived, they gave Duncan medical attention for his combat wounds, and immediately began to ask questions about the event that had taken place. They scouted the area, but he was nowhere to be found. He'd disappeared into the night, as though he were a part of it himself. Long after the officers had gone, and Duncan lay asleep in bed, she sat at the window, staring out with a mixture of fear and fascination. She prayed to every god she could think of that he wouldn't come back; but something in her made her heart beat just a bit faster when she thought about the genuine, raw passion that he'd wanted to share with her. It scared her. It thrilled her. She was still special.

She didn't return to bed that evening, too shaken to sleep or even lay still for long. She took to sitting downstairs by the fire, a cup of tea in hand. Every shadow and play of the light still caught her attention, but she'd managed to calm herself by the morning light. Mal functioned in darkness. She doubted he would ever make an appearance in broad daylight. This thought eased her mind a little. Despite herself, she couldn't help but hope that he was alright. Her heart dampened at the thought that everything might have turned out alright, if she'd only waited. He was so close to freedom, and she'd snatched it from him. Now, he ran rampant, capable of terrible things, too free for his own good. It scared her. It worried her.

She shook these thoughts from her head before she went to empty her cup, and paraded back up the stairs to try to get some sleep, even though she knew it would never come for her. She would be too busy worrying about the killer in the hallway.


	7. Up To Your Neck

_Brahajdwhjeiwbaks Happy New Year, my precious, darling little monsters! Gahhh…. This chapter was so hard to write… I can't even… I think we've spent a nice amount of time focusing on the present and the future. Let's delve into the past! An entire chapter devoted to our most loveable, terrifying Michael, his psychology, and his childhood :'3 This should explain quite a few things, such as:_

"_Mike is dead."? Why doesn't Mal take his medication? Why no family? Juvie? Prison?_

_There will be very little dialogue in this chapter, because it's mostly just a background and mental exam of our leading male. Also, I realize that all of the Total Drama characters are originally Canadian; however, for now-at least in this story-they're American residents. Because, just a reminder, Zoey and Mal are trying to escape TO Canada. They'll eventually be Canadians… xD Until then, they're stuck in 'Murica. Pleasedon'thatemegahhh._

_~Moony & Bialy_

Chapter Seven - Up To Your Neck

Years of insanity had plagued the young man. It wasn't his fault; it was genetics that made him the way he was. Nobody gets to choose their parents. He was no exception. Michael Delasin had been born into a lower class family, a part of only the second generation-on his mother's side-to be a naturalized citizen of the United States. Her side of the family held strong roots in the Philippines, her parents having immigrated to America before she was even born.

Though his mother had been quite beautiful, and loved by many, she suffered from manic depression and other mental issues that were left undiagnosed by doctors. The boy didn't have much time to know her. She overdosed on depression and pain medications when he was only five years old, just barely old enough to remember that she had ever even existed. Being so young, it was hard for him to understand where exactly his mommy had disappeared to, and why he had to live with his father.

He'd never met his father before then. The only thing that the man had done for him up until that point was pay child support, and even that was quite a meager amount of money that came in only once a month. Rarely did he leave the house; not even to become acquainted with his only child. He'd become a recluse, scared to venture too far out his front door. He worked from home, he ordered groceries and had them delivered to his apartment, and he kept an incredible amount of distance from other people, socially. Young Michael hadn't the slightest clue as to why his father acted so strangely, or that he even acted strangely at all; anyone of an older age would have identified his paranoia as a mental instability.

Father remained nameless, aside from 'dad.' He never gave out his personal information, and nobody ever came around to call him by his first name. They didn't spend much time together, despite their living arrangements. Mike found ways to entertain himself, most of which involved making up imaginary friends, or drawing mommy. He was a lonely child, even when he was in school. The typical shy loner, he spent his time at the back of the class, doing his best to pay attention to what the teachers were saying. He had no interest in making friends with the other children; he was content to stay to himself.

Throughout the years that he spent in elementary school, his teachers worried for his wellbeing. He exhibited apathy towards other students; he cared little for their thoughts or feelings, he had little to no desire to make relationships with them, and he occasionally showed aggression toward them. Along with his strange social behaviors, lethargy, napping and distractedness in the classroom were common. His father's unwillingness to meet in person to discuss the issues that the boy was having in school only brought more distress to his mentors. Their worries were simple; that he had some sort of a disability that had been left unnoticed by his parent. With autism and other pervasive developmental disorders becoming more and more common, the idea that he could be an affected child was very much possible. They had no idea that the issues inside the boy's mind were far more complex than what they were suggesting.

They did their best to be gentle with him, knowing his behavior. They developed special plans for him, having him stay after school to help him with homework assignments and give him special lessons. This helped him exponentially as far as academics were concerned. Relationships with adults seemed more at ease, for him. He was cooperative toward his mentors, and other older people. His behavior toward other the other children, however, remained cold and hostile. His disdain for company grew more and more apparent the older he became. Condescending, he believed himself to be of a higher intellect than the other children his age. Until he was out of his elementary years, this brought him nothing but negative attention from the other schoolchildren. He was bullied, picked on, and generally alienated by his peers. It only drove him farther from the social norm.

Neglect ruled his childhood. Despite this, he learned to take care of himself. In hopes of capturing the attention of his father, he displayed his intelligence by making high marks in school. Though he despised every moment that he spent in the classroom, surrounded by those whom he found most appalling, he managed to keep a tight grasp on his achievements. Despite all of his efforts, his father continued to fail to notice the potential of his son. Their relationship remained distant and estranged, and young Michael resorted to making friends with the voices in his head for comfort.

Though things were rough in his younger years, they only got rougher as he grew. High school had been a real bitch. He hated school more and more every day. People came to realize that there was something incredibly wrong with him. He fell in with the wrong crowd, and partook in dangerous activities. Desperately trying to alert his father, he spent his nights out. More often than not, he came home after two in the morning. Father, though, didn't yell. He didn't scream, didn't snap, barely even acknowledged his son existed. By the time he was fifteen, young Michael had spent several nights in the county jail, taunting officers when they would pass by his cell, laughing hysterically to himself, and then remaining quiet for the rest of his stay. More often than not, there was nobody there to bail him out. He was a troublemaker, nothing more. Until, of course, he started picking fights.

Fist fights, skipping school, and multiple assaults on other boys his age was what got his ass planted in juvie when he was seventeen. Even when he was staying there, his aggression toward others was rather intense. He didn't get along with the others; more than a few were terrified of him, and wanted nothing to do with him. Then there were boys like Duncan.

Duncan was the self proclaimed King of Juvie. His ego was inflated to twice the size it should have been, and had a tendency of shoving it down other people's throats. Mike hated it, hated _him_, and wanted nothing more than to put him in his place. He stayed to himself, despite his disdain. He quietly observed the ape-like male, contemplative and calm as he was poked and prodded with awful names. He was constantly confronted by Duncan and his crew, though he did little to counter it.

There was only one thing about Duncan that fascinated Mike to no end; his ability to make and keep strong friendships. He was often visited by friends, family, and loved ones. Once a week, two girls came to visit him. Occasionally, they were accompanied by a third, but she didn't peak his interest. One of the two regulars was a bossy brunette with a can-do attitude. She constantly teased the punk, and he would tease her back with flirtatious threats. The other was a bit smaller, dainty almost, and her hair was painted red like fire. She was quiet and conscientious, and always courteous. She never said much, but her presence alone-even from far away-was soothing, calming.

Mike watched her with scrutiny, always wanting to say something, but never really knowing how. Antisocial, strange, and lonely, he left himself in the corner to watch her from afar, with her perfect, porcelain skin, and her cherry red hair. He wanted to touch her, to know her, to meet her. And he did get to meet her. But not the way he would have liked to. He remembered the day as if it were etched onto the backs of his eyelids, a horrible reminder of why he didn't associate with others.

It had been one of the days which the girls had been visiting, naturally. He'd sat himself in the farthest corner he possibly could, running a hand through his messy mop of hair. He glanced up at the clock, checking the time, as Duncan sauntered up to their meeting place. Only moments later, the two friends strolled in the door to meet them. Things were going normal as usual, before her eyes drifted to his corner.

"Who's that?" She murmured to the King, frowning. "Over there in the corner." He raised an eyebrow and turned around to stare.

"Oh, him? That's Mike. Total nutjob," Duncan drawled with a snicker. "Don't really know what he's here for. Personally, it wouldn't surprise me if he murdered somebody. Just look at him." She shot a glare at her friend before turning her head to look back at him.

"Be nice. He looks lonely," She nudged Duncan lightly, shooting him a hopeful look with her doe-eyes. "Invite him over here. It's bad enough to be stuck here, much less alone." He rolled his eyes before he pivoted in his chair to face the corner.

"Hey! Casanova!" Duncan called from across the room, looking a bit annoyed. Mike blinked, bringing his eyes to the other boy's. Slowly, he pointed to himself. "Yeah, you. Get your ass over here before I move it for you." He warily shook his head and looked away. Duncan frowned before he turned back to his friend.

"Want me to drag his ass over here? I told you, he's just fucking nuts." The girl just sighed and shook her head.

"He might've come over here if you weren't such an_ ass _sometimes."

"Oh, lighten up," the brunette chastised her. "Gosh, sometimes I feel like _Gwen_ is the more optimistic of you two." They teased each other back and forth after that. The redhead turned to watch him only for a moment more before she became consumed in her friends again. The moment was soon lost on her, like a passing fancy. She wouldn't remember it again.

His cheeks had flushed red, and he buried his face in his hands in an attempt to escape the embarrassment. After only a moment, though, he was watching once more; watching her pretty, red locks bounce around her head. He decided, then, he'd fall in love with a girl with hair as red as hers if he had his way.

He avoided the visitor's center after that, scared that he'd come into contact with Duncan and his pretty girl friends. Duncan, however, searched for conflict as a young man. This had given him the perfect opportunity to start a fight. He met up with him in the cafeteria, looking smug. It had only taken a few insults to provoke the younger man into raising his fists.

"Heya, sugar," Duncan uttered with a scowl. He shoved him a bit, looking disgusted when he didn't immediately respond. "I saw you eyeing Little Red over there. You got something you want me to say to her for you?" His tone was dripping with poison and sarcasm.

"No, Duncan, I have nothing to say," he replied through gritted teeth, balling his fists in an attempt to contain his frustration.

"Oh, so it _does_ talk!" He laughed, eyebrows shooting up. "Well, what a surprise."

"Just leave me alone," he grumbled, doing his best to ignore him. "I don't want anything to do with you."

"That so? C'mon, now, that's no fun. You obviously want _something_ to do with me. Otherwise, you wouldn't be eye raping one of my girls."

"I didn't do anything to you," he growled, trying to contain himself. "You're insane."

"Funny, coming from the guy who sits there and _talks_ to himself."

"Oh, fuck you!" With that, the first punch was thrown. Mike nailed Duncan in the stomach, which sent him staggering for a moment. He bumped into one of the other delinquents, sending his plastic lunch tray flying forward and clattering to the ground. Before long, though, he reaffirmed his ground, and rushed forward once more. He shoved the smaller boy against the wall and began to pound hard against his face. Mike sputtered, trying to catch his breath.

"Dumb bastard!" Duncan laughed. "Nobody picks a fight with the King unless they went their ass handed to them!" He let the boy go and stood back. Mike held fast to the wall, his hair hiding his eyes, his hand held to his jaw. He cast his eyes to the floor, and nearly cried out in distress. One of his teeth lay on the linoleum. His tongue flicked to the empty spot, and he found that the other was loose, threatening to join its fallen brother.

"S-Shit..."

"Bitch!" Duncan cried out with a chuckle, looking smug. He turned his back on his adversary to address the other kids, who had crowded around to watch them beat the ever loving shit out of one another.

"Let this be a testament to the rest of you," he called, eyebrows raised with a smile. "Long live the King!" The other boys cheered, watching him with adoration, paying little attention to his broken opponent. Mike's eyes fell upon the cracked lunch tray as the security guards tried to break up the crowd.

Mike silently leaned down to pick up the lunch tray, fingers trembling, chest heaving, throat hoarse. His jaw hurt. His mouth hurt. He was seeing red; and it wasn't just blood. He smashed the tray against the ground and brought his foot down hard against the plastic until it shattered into jagged pieces. He quickly snatched one up and stumbled forward.

The next thing either of them knew, Duncan was on the ground, howling in pain, and Mike was being dragged away by the guards. He spent an entire month in solitary; but he didn't care. Nobody would mess with him again. Solitary was where he'd devised his new name; he didn't deserve a name such as Michael. His mother had named him after an _angel_. Considering he'd abandoned religion at this point, and he was anything but an angel, he needed something a little more fitting. There was only one that he could think of. Translated into several different languages as _evil_, or _bad_, Mal seemed about as perfect a name as any. After all, he _was_ a bad boy.

He was treated with far more respect after he was released from solitary. He was avoided at all costs by the punk. He'd been in need of stitches after what had happened. He wasn't about to go back for more. _Mal _wasn't picked on. _Mal_ was tough, dark, intimidating. _Mal_ was a new person; Michael was gone. Michael was _dead_.

He only spent a few more months in Juvie. He was released just before his eighteenth birthday. He spent some time wandering about before he returned home.

"Where've you been, these past few days?" asked his father inquisitively. The young man was quiet, staring at his parent with an incredulous expression.

"You're kidding, right?"

"Kidding about what?"

"I've been gone for _months_," he murmured, shoving his hands in his pockets insecurely.

"Oh? Oh." The man frowned, looking troubled for a moment before he glanced back to his son. "Where have you been?"

"Juvie," he replied simply, staring at his father with a mix of disbelief and pity.

"Makes sense." The room grew quiet again, and they simply stared at each other. "What day is it? Is it August yet?"

"October, Dad," the young man sighed, running a hand through his hair. "Do I need to take you to the doct-"

"No." The man cut him off sternly, eyes growing wide. "'Doctors' are the very _spawn_ of satan, Michael. Always remember that. They'll do nothing for you but make you feel crazy. They're government workers, Michael. They all are."

"Sure," he grumbled, shrugging it off and trudging over to the couch. "Whatever makes you happy, dad." There were no questions asked about the time he'd spent in juvie, nor were there any comments such as 'my, haven't you grown' or 'I missed you.' After a miserly hour of being home, it seemed that the man had forgotten that his son was gone at all. The boy had taught himself in younger years not to let this bother him; it was normal for this house. Whether or not it was normal to anybody else, he gave zero shits.

Life went on for a while, before he was arrested again. This time, at the age of eighteen, he was no longer a juvenile delinquent. He was sent to prison on account of attempted murder.

Mal decidedly liked red hair; much more than he'd admit to. Though this woman's hair was not the beautiful shade of cherry that he'd fallen in love with, copper could be stained crimson. He had, once again, assaulted another human being. He'd failed to do much more than concuss the poor, clueless thing. She pressed charges, naturally. He was sentenced to nine years in prison, though nobody knew that he'd be removed from the facility after pleading insanity during the trial. He spent a few weeks in the prison before he was pulled out and examined by a doctor.

Dr. Noah Sterecra was renown for his work in psychology. He'd made progress with some incredibly unyielding patients. It was he who initially diagnosed the young man with paranoid schizophrenia after a series of tests. After learning of Mal's father and his strange behavior, it became rather clear that he wasn't the first in his family to experience the effects of the disease. He covered other criteria, including an examination of the family's medical history. He concluded his exam with an interview.

"Have you experienced any of the following symptoms in the past thirty days?" He rattled off some of the common effects: hallucinations, delusions, disorganized speech, disorganized or catatonic behavior, and any negative symptoms (such as emotional flatness, apathy, or a lack of speech). After a moment's deliberation, the boy replied hesitantly.

"I have experienced," he admitted. "A few of those." The doctor looked up at him before he scribbled that down on his clipboard.

"Would you care to elaborate?"

"I've been delusional," he said quietly, expression blank and unreadable. He didn't make any eye contact. "And I've had problems with emotional flatness and apathy."

"Is that so?" He continued to write down what the young man said. "What sort of delusions have you been experiencing? Are people out to get you? Or are you Jesus? Have you had thoughts, or feelings, that lead you to believe that you're being controlled by an outside source? Are you convinced that you've special powers, or are you experiencing other delusions of grandeur?"

"I feel controlled, sometimes," the boy murmured. "Though I don't know what by."

"Have you had any significant problems functioning?"

"You tell me, doc," he said, looking up for the first time. "I'm obsessed with women with red hair to the point that I tried to _kill_ one." The doctor frowned.

"Do you take responsibility for what happened?"

"I don't know. I don't remember trying to kill her. I just remember her on the concrete, with her pretty red hair…" He trailed off, expression flattening once more before he looked back at the floor. The doctor quickly took note.

"Are there any other instances of problems functioning?"

"I've been to juvie on accounts of assault. I had trouble in school, I have no friends, I've spent most of my life struggling to find a place to _be_." The doctor nodded as if he understood the feeling, doing his best to look sympathetic. Nonetheless, he rolled along with the next question.

"Do you have any medical disorders?"

"No."

"Are you currently under the influence of any substances, such as drugs or alcohol? Have you been experiencing withdrawal?"

"No, I'm not under any influence."

"Do you mind if we run a test?"

"Not at all."

"Good." The doctor looked thoughtful as he glanced over the criteria listed on the form. He glanced back up at the young man with an expectant expression. "You'll be staying here, at the Grangington House, for at least a few more days while we run the tests. We'll have to do some scans, but I think you've chosen to do the right thing, coming here." The boy raised his eyes, studying the doctor's expression.

"You think I'm nuts?"

"No; I think you need help." He stared back at the boy before he bit his lip. "It's not uncommon, really. You're not 'nuts.' You just need a little extra help. That's not a crime. I'm sure that with the right treatment, you'll be well on your way to functioning in society again." He smiled at the boy, and when he gained nothing in return, he sighed, and returned to his case study.

Days became weeks after the tests returned and he was found to be perfectly clean. He requested to stay with Grangington, despite the fact that his treatment was perfectly functional outside of the hospital. The truth was, after learning that his father was likely his genetic source for the disease, he didn't want to live in that environment anymore. This was especially smart, considering that his father really wanted nothing to do with doctors or treatment. He was surely convinced that he was entirely sane, and that his son was no different.

Mal got along well with Dr. Noah, who insisted upon his first name rather than his last. He preferred a more personal relationship with the patients and nurses of his hospital. He was, at the time, the head doctor. Under him were several doctors, one of which was Thomas Kobe. A resident doctor, he'd had no contact with Michael at that point in time. He had, however, heard the stories.

At that time, the patient cooperated well with his nurse, a scrawny young man named Cody Anderson. Cody was more than a bit of a goofball, always capable of making people smile. At first, Mal wasn't to keen on the man.

"Look, we've got the same teeth," Anderson had mentioned upon their first meeting. The patient had scowled at that.

"You were born with a gap. I _earned_ mine."

He progressively got better over the three year span that he was with Dr. Noah. Their treatment plan was very beneficial, and he found himself falling back into a happy course. He felt more and more like himself, more like _Michael, _every day. Things seemed infallible; that is, until Dr. Noah was offered a job elsewhere, an even larger facility than Grangington, with more patients. He left in his wake a crushed Dr. Kobe, a heartbroken Nurse Anderson, and a horrified Michael.

Kobe was young and inexperienced. And he was mourning the loss of his beloved young wife. Despite Noah's previously determined treatment plan, Kobe decided it would be best to review the patient. He incorrectly labeled young Michael, diagnosed him with MPD, and put him on new medications. Things only went downhill from there. Some time after things had fallen into a monotonous schedule, he was informed of the death of his father. Though he wasn't too heartbroken, it dawned upon him that he was entirely alone. There was nobody left in the world to take care of him, save for the nurses in the hospital and himself. Nobody else cared. Nobody else _wanted_ to care.

Mal reverted to the state he had been in when he first arrived at the hospital. He constantly complained about his medication to Anderson, complained to himself, began to lose his mind once more. There was a long period of time in which he grew worse and worse, until finally, he attacked his caretaker. Immediately, he was removed from Cody's care. Anderson was transferred to Dr. Noah's hospital, and Mal was given an opportunity that Kobe should have contemplated much more before he allowed it.

"Just let me pick my nurse," the boy hissed. "And I _promise_, I'll behave."

"And if I refuse to meet these demands?" The doctor didn't seem to be too impressed with the patient, nor his behavior.

"If you refuse," he uttered slowly, venomously. "I'll be forced to make life a living _hell_ for any other nurse that comes around. And for _you_ as well."

This caught the doctor's attention. He debated the topic with himself for several days before he consented. Under the terms that he would cooperate with the next nurse, and wouldn't cause trouble, he was set up with file upon file in the doctor's office. He studied each of them carefully; that is, until he made it about halfway through the stack. It wasn't her face that made him pause to study her, nor her name. It was her beautiful, copper colored hair.

"I want this one," he announced with a blank expression. The doctor looked up expectantly, taking the file to examine it.

"Are you sure? She's awfully young, very inexperienced." The doctor looked up, eyebrows raised. "I don't think-"

"She's the one. I want her." He had no clue in the world who she was. He couldn't recall her face, blurred by time and years of madness. He hadn't an inkling of an idea, the amount of hell he was to unleash. Only three months later, the young nurse was employed.

Now, as he curled up under the barren branches of a dead oak, he couldn't help but hate himself. He was up to his neck in these emotions that he just couldn't sort out. Where had he gone wrong? What had he done? What was he supposed to do to save himself from the monsters inside his own head? He'd done his best to acquire an angel of his own, to fight away his demons, to set him free. But he'd failed.

'_You're a screw-up,' _they whispered to him. _'A failure. You can't even keep a girl in check. She's only a girl, don't you get it? Only a girl.' _He clutched the sides of his head in an attempt to quiet them, but they simply wouldn't leave him alone.

"Shut up, shut up, shut up, shut _up_," he hissed, pulling his knees closer to his chest. "I'm not a screw-up. I'm not a failure. I've still got a shot. I can still have her all to myself. _Shut up_."

'_Prove it. Prove it, prove it, prove it, you poor, pitiful, useless thing.'_

"Maybe I will." With that, the sociopath began to devise a plan.


	8. Life On The Murder Scene

_So, Bialy and I have decided that even after this story is over, we're going to continue to write in this universe. We're starting our own series! "The Vitus Macrocosm". So if you like this one, check out the other things we do for Total Drama! (I'll make a community, that way all of the stories will stay together.)_

_Chapter eight, hooh hah hah!_

_~ Moony & Bialy_

The murder investigation went underway almost immediately. The scene was scanned and analyzed until they came to the conclusion that Michael was, indeed, the culprit. The only thing left to do was to rummage through files and interview the woman he'd assaulted only days earlier.

Detective Brick McArthur glanced over at his partner, Josephine Callister, with a small frown. They'd been assigned to this case, though initially they'd been reluctant to work together. They took the time to chat awkwardly on their way to the witness's home. There were plenty of questions to ask involving the escaped patient. Who better to ask than his nurse? Regardless, the two were assigned to following up on the woman's assault, seeing as it had happened the same night of the murder. Their questions regarding it would eventually tie in with the murder of the good doctor. The whole case following him was a giant mess, as they couldn't even find the perpetrator.

As they pulled into the driveway of the nurse's house, they were greeted by her lover, smoking a cigarette on the front porch. He nodded curtly at the two officers and let them inside. The young woman sat on the couch. She didn't quite look physically shaken by the attack, but the mile-high stack of coffee cups said otherwise. McArthur looked her over before he frowned.

"Miss-" He glanced at the piece of paper with her information. "Ozera? Zoey Ozera?" He brought his eyes back to hers. She regarded them with a tired nod.

"Yes." She gestured to the couch. "Please, have a seat. Would you like anything to drink? I have coffee and tea..." She trailed off for a moment before snapping her head up to smile softly at them once more. The other woman took a seat next to her partner.

"No thank you," she replied gruffly, pushing the hair from her eyes. "We're here strictly to ask questions and get out." McArthur looked over at her with a slight scowl.

"Be polite. She's just been attacked," he chided. Callister rolled her eyes, but softened a bit, nevertheless. Zoey watched the exchange silently, taking sips of her coffee as she waited.

"Please, don't worry about me. It's something you have to prepare yourself for, when you work with the criminally insane."

"See? Women can take care of themselves." Callister looked unimpressed with her partner before Zoey cleared her throat.

"You said you had some questions?"

"Yes, yes, of course," mumbled McArthur. "How long did you know Michael Delasin before he attacked you?"

"I've known him since the beginning of my employment at Grangington. I was assigned as his nurse. I took care of his medications and general well-being. I didn't know him outside of work," she murmured in compliance. The man nodded.

"How was your relationship inside the hospital?" He looked up with a small frown. "Did he ever get physical with you, Miss Ozera?" She gave them a confused look for a moment. The police had to have custody of his file by now, and it would've had something in it. Unless, of course, Kobe never got around to filing an incident report. Her face softened, and she shook her head. She gave them the most generalized answer she could manage.

"He'd been locked up for years without so much as a _glance_ at other women. He was bound to be responsive to that." Jo frowned, eyes narrowing.

"So, he _did_ get physical with you," she stated rather than asked. "Was he violent?"

"He was," she winced. "Not as violent towards me, per se, as he had shown to be towards the other doctors and nurses. He was more aggressive with other patients, honestly. Until the other night, I hadn't really seen _physical_ aggression from him so much as a psychological desire to dominate over others." They quickly noted this before McArthur continued.

"Tell me a little about your thoughts on the patient. How do you feel about the events that have taken place?" She bit her lip, clutching her mug close to her chest.

"Well, I'm not sure how I'm expected to feel. He broke into my house after escaping a high-security mental facility and murdering my employer. At the time, I wasn't entirely convinced I'd live through the encounter, myself." The two detectives were silent, watching her carefully. McArthur slowly nodded before he shook his head.

"It's very unfortunate that something of this caliber occurred," he murmured. "Was there anything that might have triggered this behavior? Any stressors?" Her eyes widened for a moment before growing sad. Was her reputation really worth this much to her? It wasn't lying-it was a small, insignificant twisting of the truth.

"H-he was going to be released to the public, but Dr. Kobe decided to revoke the opportunity. He said that he was worried because he seemed to exhibit signs of an obsessive fixation on me. A fixation that went past a healthy relationship. There was worry that he would become fixated outside of the hospital to the point of erotomania. That scared me."

"Do you feel safe in your home, Miss Ozera?" Her smile fell slowly.

"Sure, when I'm awake." She shrugged. "My partner and I are both aware of him now. We're prepared to call the police immediately if we think he's around." The two officers were contented by her response. They continued to ask her a few questions before they said their goodbyes. It was time to return to the murder scene.

By the time the two had made it back to the hospital, Jo's face had already scrunched up into a tight grimace, glaring at the other officers as they made their way past the yellow tape. McArthur was reading over the files on the missing person once more, frowning.

"He progressively got worse after Dr. Sterecra was transferred to a different hospital." He raised his gaze to his partner, biting his lip. "Why wouldn't Kobe transfer the patient too? Wouldn't that have been most beneficial?"

"Because, brick-for-brains," the woman sneered. "It costs a shitload of money to transfer a patient, and a lot of time."

"Right," he murmured, looking away. "I should've thought about that."

"Yeah, you should have," she murmured thoughtfully as she examined the room which the doctor had been murdered in. "Now, I wonder. If I were a girl-crazed psychopath, where would I hide?"

"Shouldn't be too hard for _you_ to figure out."

"Shut up, McArthur. Your implications mean nothing to me."

The psychopath, at the same time, was plotting. He'd managed to hole himself up in an old, dried up sewage drain. Though the smell wasn't pleasant, it was an easy hideaway for the time being. All he needed was for Duncan to leave the house. That was all.

He'd already acquired a gun, much more efficient than a knife. Though he preferred the damage that could be performed with a knife, they were too easy to disarm. Now, he would have the upper hand. The only question left was when to make use of the weapon. He already had a plot cooking inside his broken head. All he had to do was wait.

After a week, the commotion had died down a bit. He was tired, he was in need of a shower, he was hungry, and he was unbelievably irritable. He was ready to come out of hiding. He left his hiding place early in the morning, far before the sky had begun to lighten with the sun. He hid himself in the shrubs in her backyard, low to the ground and waited, ever patient. He didn't dare to move, nor leave his post. He merely watched from the bushes, waiting for any change to occur.

It wasn't until eight o'clock that Duncan slipped from the house to the driveway, and skidded off to work. Mal cursed himself for hiding in the back rather than the front yard. He would have had a chance to kill the damnable bastard. He shook the thoughts from his mind as he stood up. He brushed himself off and sauntered his way to the back door. He tried the knob and cursed when it was locked. He tried the kitchen window, which he also found was locked. He was quiet before be glanced upward. There was the window from which he'd escaped, the week previous. He smiled softly to himself before he frowned. He glanced about, trying to find a way up. The back patio was covered by a tin awning. If he could find a way to climb atop the awning, he'd be inside in no time. His eyes fell upon the patio table. He lifted it with ease, pulling it to the edge of the patio, and put it in place. Before he even registered that he'd succeeded, he had thrown open her bedroom window and planted his muddied boots on the hardwood floor. He glanced to the left, only to find that her bed was abandoned. With a sigh, he crept to the hallway. He made his way through the house, the rubber soles of his shoes silent against the wooden floors as he searched for the copper haired girl.

When he'd found the young woman, she was curled up on the couch, asleep. She was surrounded by cups, clutching a phone and a pillow as she slept. The whole room reeked of coffee beans, mint tea, and stale air. The television was on, but it only seemed to be on as a comfort, seeing as the volume was nearly on mute. He smiled softly at her dormant form, allowing his fingers to tuck a piece of hair behind her ear. He then proceeded to cock his gun and press it to her forehead.

"Oh, _Honey_," he murmured sweetly, leaning down so that she would hear him. "I'm _home_." She blinked slowly, muttering incoherently to herself before she saw him. Before she could think, her instincts took control and she threw herself away from him. He grabbed her, pushing her down against the couch once more and pressing the barrel of his gun harder against her head. She let silence hang in the air before throwing in a nervous laugh.

"W-what sort of a time do you call this?" she asked quietly, eyes widening. Finishing the joke was the only thing her brain could focus on other than the gun. She kept her eyes trained upon it, taking a deep breath. "What are you doing here, Mal?"

"I'm here to rescue my princess, whether she wants to be rescued or not," he stated simply. After a moment of quiet, his features softened. "I missed you." He tilted up her chin gently, taking a good look at her. She jerked her chin away.

"You killed Dr. Kobe." Her voice was small. There was no Duncan to save her, now. "Please, you've taken this too far. Just stop."

"Too far?" He frowned, looking troubled. "There's no such thing as 'too far.' Especially not when the person you care about is involved. Kobe was the only thing keeping us _apart_. I'm here now, though." He smiled dazedly, clearly delusional. Zoey shook her head at him, frowning. Her hand slowly went to reach for the gun. She had no intentions of taking it from him, she just wanted it out of her face.

"Mal." She reached up to stroke his hair, speaking as softly as possible. "I like it where I am. I don't _want _to go anywhere. I like it _here_, in my house."

"What's so special about here?" He cast his eyes about, brow furrowing once more. "I don't have a house. What's so special about a house? Is this your _home_?" He looked at her with narrowed eyes.

"What? Home? Of _course_ it's my home." She let her fingers fall softly against his cheek. Very slowly, he lowered the gun from her head. "My home is here, in this house, with Duncan, with my job. I have a life. You don't expect me to abandon that, do you?" He was silent, his expression darkening momentarily.

"But you're _my_ home," he murmured. "I don't need a house. I don't need a job. All I need is you, Zoey. And I _won't _abandon you." He laid a kiss against her temple before he stood up straight and pointed the gun against her head once more. She stood up slowly, throwing her hands out in front of her as a way of showing that she wasn't going to try anything.

"No, you don't need me," she said slowly, picking through the words. "You need help."

"I already tried that. Look where it got me." He snorted. "You're going to do exactly as I say, or you'll regret it. We're going upstairs. You're going to get dressed. And then we're leaving." Her eyes narrowed, staring at the gun.

"What if I _do_ refuse?"

"Then I'll just have to pull the trigger. You're just as much of an inspiration to me dead, Zoey. As long as you're near," he swooned a bit. "I'm content." She stood for a moment, mulling through her options, and deciding that she didn't have the knowledge or the physical strength to enact any of them. She simply turned around slowly and began to walk to the bedroom.

"Why are you doing this? If I have to go with you, at least tell me what's going on in your head."

"I-" He paused, looking thoughtful for a moment before he glared at her. "Want you. I've never wanted somebody so badly, all to myself. Something to hold on to. I have an unhealthy obsession with you, and I _don't care_." He watched her with slight exasperation. It dawned upon her at that moment that in his own, demented mind, this was the hardest thing for him to process, the hardest emotion for him to understand. This was his own sick, twisted version of affection; perhaps even _love_. And he didn't know how else to deal with it than this. Despite the fact that he had a gun to her head, she took a moment to appreciate this thought, and laughed a little.

"I'd almost thank you for saying that if the situation were any different." She turned to look him in the eyes for a moment as they rounded the corner to her closet. "All the same, you're holding me hostage at this point."

"Just get dressed," he uttered, looking away from her. "I want to leave as soon as possible." She frowned at that, but began packing. She didn't really look at what she picked, settling to throw any piece of clothing that was hers in a travel bag. When she picked out the red top and khaki capris, they were thrown on without another thought. He looked her over before he reached past her and plucked Duncan's black hoodie from the mess of clothes and yanked it over his head.

"Grab your wallet. Grab your money. Whatever. Make it fast." Despite the fact that she was following every word that skipped from his lips, he sounded a bit defeated. It was almost as if he'd revealed a life-crushing secret to her. He did his best to remain cold, and succeeded for the most part. His eyes lingered at the back of her head, however, and watched her with insecurity. He'd lowered his gun, but kept his finger on the trigger. She gathered her things quickly, until she looked ready to practically move out of her house. It seemed that if he got his way, she would.

"I have everything," she muttered, glaring at him as she grappled with the bag. He took it for her and slung it over one shoulder.

"Good. Grab your keys. You're driving."

When Duncan arrived home a few hours later, he was first confused as to the state that the house was in. After a few moments of searching for his lover, and failing to find her, his confusion turned to fear. He immediately called the detectives. When the authorities arrived, he was in the middle of a rampage.

"I'LL KILL THAT MOTHERFUCKER!" he screamed, eyes wide with malice. "I'll strangle him! He took Zoey! He took Zoey!" McArthur did his best to calm the man.

"Duncan, you need to settle down," he murmured, frowning. "There's nothing we can do until we get some answers. Okay? We're going to have to take yo-"

"Fuck that!" He shoved the officer away from him. Jo had to fight with all of her might not to plant her knuckles against the punk's jaw.

"You asshole! That's assault of an officer!" she hissed, teeth grit. McArthur merely laid a hand on her shoulder.

"It's okay, Callister. He's not in his right mind."

They restrained him and took him into custody. He was vehement, ready to destroy the bloody bastard who had kidnapped his girl. They did their best to keep him under control. When they felt he was calm enough, they sat down to ask him a few questions.

"Do you know the man who took Miss Ozera?" McArthur asked with a small frown. Duncan glared at him in return.

"Unfortunately, I do," he grumbled with a scowl.

"How do you know him?"

"When I was still a kid, I met him in juvie."

"Did you get along with him?"

"Fuck no, I didn't. The guy scared the shit out of me. I didn't want anything to do with him. Especially after he shanked me, the bastard." He glared at the floor, clasping his hands on the table.

"Do you have any idea where they might've gone?"

"Why would I?" He rested his head against his knuckles, suddenly sounding entirely defeated. "I just- I want her back. I'm so worried." Even Jo frowned a bit, looking a little sympathetic. She cast her eyes to her partner.

"We'll do our best to find her, okay?" the woman murmured. "I'm sure everything will be all right." The young man nodded, rubbing his eyelids with his thumbs.

At the same time, in an abandoned house a few cities over, Mal and Zoey were setting up camp. They'd ditched her car just a few miles away. Now, he had her tied to a chair in the basement, and was watching her with an intrigued expression.

"Finally," he murmured. "All to myself. I finally have you all to myself." He smiled a bit, casting his eyes to the dirt-encrusted concrete floor. She sat calmly. Struggling against the ropes would just wear her out, and she needed to watch what he was doing.

"We're in the middle of nowhere, and you have a gun," she pointed out honestly. "What's with the chair? I highly doubt I can go anywhere now."

"I need you to sit still," he replied with just as much honesty. As he stood, he pulled a small, sharp knife from his boot. "It'll only take a minute. Don't be afraid." He smiled widely at her as he stepped closer, brandishing his knife with lavish. She started pulling against the ropes at that, eyes widening.

"Well, I am!" She yelled, voice hitching. He stepped behind her, frowning thoughtfully, and pulled her hair back, away from her neck.

"Hold still. I don't want to cause you any unnecessary pain." He raised the knife. "Stop struggling. It'll be quick."

"Please," she pleaded. "Just tell me what you're doing first. You're _scaring_ me." There was a moment of silence, and a tug or two at her locks, and then nothing.

As she opened her eyes, she found her coppery locks laying upon the floor. They'd been cut a little shorter than shoulder length, and it was obvious that he was no hair stylist. Choppy and uneven, her hair clung to her face in places. He tangled his fingers in her locks and then smiled.

"All done, for now," he uttered. "We'll change the color later."

"What do you mean?" she asked, lips trembling. He tilted her head back and locked eyes with her for a moment.

"I can't take you places, if you look like a missing person, can I?" He let his fingers slip from her chin, and he leaned down so that their faces were only inches apart. His fingers reached into her pocket, and retrieved her money. "I'll be back with some dye." She stared at him silently, confused and frustrated. Slowly, he stood up straight, and walked to the stairs that led to the basement door.

"I hate you," she murmured, tears forming in her eyes. "I've never hated anybody so much in my life." He merely chuckled.

"Then we have an understanding," he uttered. "At least I made you feel anything at all." He glided up the stairs and through the door, leaving her on her own. She laid her head back against the chair, staring at the ceiling. After a few moments of being alone, she let the sobs resound from her chest.

What kind of sick fuck was he? She thought about what had happened earlier. At the time, the sleep deprivation and shock had been enough to stop her from doing something rash. The more she went back over it, though, there was something she could've done. Even if she'd gotten a little scraped up in the process, she at least could've tried to protect herself. Zoey realized that she'd practically given up as soon as she'd seen him, like she'd known that this was going to happen anyways. There was no reason to fight it, right? She might as well be letting the psycho tote her around for cheap thrills.

The realization was hitting her like a sack of bricks: this was _real._ He wasn't fucking around, now. He really was going to drag her along with him. She couldn't_ talk_ to him and give him fuzzy little _kisses_ to keep him contented, or at least distracted, until the cops showed up and came to her rescue. This time it was for real, and she wasn't exactly confident that he would find her to be worth the trouble. Dragging along a participant while on the run, especially an unwilling one, was going to put him at risk at every moment and slow him down.

She'd read about hostage situations before, back when she'd been in college. She'd taken Psychology class as an undergraduate, and she'd become fascinated with the different scenarios of a kidnapping situation. Horrified, but fascinated. While there had been a few outlying cases that had gone beyond the norm, the majority of the cases ended in a sadistic torturing of the kidnapee. Whether or not it was physical, mental, or sexual, they were broken down until they developed a psychological response called Stockholm Syndrome, and became emotionally attached to their kidnapper. The only other common outcome had been murder. Sometimes they would slaughter the victim out of boredom, premeditation, or for some other reason before repeating the cycle.

She was, however, the first person he'd ever kidnapped. If he'd wanted to kill her, he could've done so back at Grangington. He'd obviously shown recently that he was more than capable of that. Why, then, was she so afraid of him now? Why, all of a sudden, was she so obsessed with _hating_ him? Was she forcing it upon herself? Was she in a state of denial? No, no, he was a _killer. _He'd killed Kobe, and he'd hurt others before that. He could've killed her quite a few times now, and during the first break-in he'd thought about it. Instead, though, he'd refrained from hurting her. While she _may_ have influenced his decision on that matter, it was quite obvious that he didn't want her to die, nor did he really seem to have any plans to kill her in the future.

_'If I cooperate_,' she reminded herself warily. She took a deep breath, calming down now. She still had an inkling of her previous feelings for him. There was a little spark of a thrill at what he'd done, but her instinct to survive outweighed that by a large majority. She didn't want to hurt him, yet she didn't feel comfortable with him. She was obsessed with him, similarly to the way he was obsessed with her, yet wanted nothing to do with him.

Her romantic attraction to him had been rooted in her fascination with him, and she recognized that, but Zoey was doubtful that he really knew why he liked her so much. She wasn't sure that his sociopathy even allowed him to really see her as a _person_. He'd referred to her as an object since day one, like she was less than human to him.

The door crashed open only moments later, and footsteps rapidly descended the stairs. He grinned at her wildly, his manic eyes resembling those of an excited child. He had a small box in his hands, and looked rather enthusiastic.

"I bet it'll look nice," he murmured. Whether he was speaking to her or to himself, she couldn't tell. Either way, he was approaching her and opening the box at the same time.

"What is it?" she asked, turning to face him. Her eyes were still red and puffy, but she'd calmed down considerably and was regarding him with a sort of relaxed aloofness that she'd lacked before. It was forced, but he hadn't proven to be very good at reading emotions before. He looked her over for a moment before he showed her the box.

"Your hair dye," he mused, brushing her bangs from her eyes. "What do you think of the color? I think it'll look nice on you."

"I used to dye my hair that color when I was in high school. Good choice." She flashed him a strained smile and muttered her praise quickly before tugging on the ropes. "Untie me and I'll dye my hair myself." He clicked his tongue for a moment, unsure of whether or not to trust her. After a moment's deliberation, he pulled at the ropes and let her loose.

"No funny business," he murmured. She pouted, sending him a look of faux-surprise before snatching the box from him.

"Now, why would I _ever_ do that?"

"Because you're terrified of me." He glared at her. "That's okay though. I'm used to being feared. Don't do anything that you'll regret, Zoey."

"Oh, I'm sure I'll do that eventually," she sighed, but shrugged, letting her face become serene before she leaned in to quickly kiss him on the cheek. "But I'm just a _plaything_, so I'm sure I'll be easy to control." He frowned at her before be cast his eyes away from her, glowering.

"Don't tempt me, Zoey." The young woman glared back at him.

"That's all I've ever done, isn't it? It seems to have worked out so far. Why should I stop?" He turned around to glare at her, raising his hand, about to deal with her the way he had when they'd first met; physically. However, he clenched his teeth, and touched her cheek instead. His hands were warm and strong, and he was gentle with her.

"Because I'm trying as hard as I possibly can to do what I feel is fair. Hurting you is _not_ fair." He looked away from her again, jaw set. "So don't make me want to." She watched him for a moment before hanging her head.

"Where should I go to do this?" She asked quietly, gently rattling the box. He watched her before he sighed and took the box from her.

"Here," he murmured, eyes softening a bit. "I'll help you. We'll need to find a place with running water." He ran a hand through her hair and sighed, looking up at the ceiling.

"Lead the way, then," she muttered and clutched her forehead, gesturing to him haphazardly. He watched her carefully before he wrapped his fingers around hers.

"Alright. Let's go."


	9. Evil Friends

_Here you go. Chapter nine. Sorry for the slight delay, guys, we're back to school. We'll do our best to keep updating regularly! By the way, Bialy and I have settled upon some confirmation for you. There WILL be several stories set in this universe. We are confirming a multichapter Dott fic, a multichapter Aleheather, and a multichapter Jo and Brick story. Stay tuned, if you wanna read more! Things are gonna get craaaaazy. Wooh!_

_~Moony & Bialy_

Chapter Nine - Evil Friends

He watched her contentedly from across the room, his eyes searching her for any sign of emotion. He wanted to read her. But she wasn't readable. She masked her feelings well, leaving him to stand in the corner and eye her crimson hair. They'd arrived only minutes earlier, and her hair was still damp. She eyed him from time to time but her expressions were void, almost like she was looking at him as if he were nothing more than another stranger.

Their escapade to dye her hair had been more than a bit stressful. The shock of it all had settled in as they'd left. It was when she thought that she knew exactly what he was capable of that he would choose to send her into an emotional tailspin, radically flipping her perspective from A to B and back again. He was absolutely terrible.

She had thought she'd known him. She had thought she'd known what to expect after the break-in and the murder of Kobe. She thought she'd seen it all. Now she knew that it had been a lie, because those things had been bad, but _this_ was something else. Something far worse. She'd _seen_ things, now, that she wished she _never_ had. He'd made her watch, as if to make a point.

They'd left at about three in the morning and crossed into the bad side of town. Things were twice as dark there. Broken down cars littered the side of the road, and locals watched them with hungry sneers. The entire time, Mal had twined his fingers roughly with hers. In his hoodie pocket, he gripped his knife, ready to strike anybody who came too close. In a place like this, they didn't need to worry about being recognized. It wouldn't have mattered even if they _were_ distinguished by the residents. Most of the people here were probably wanted, too. The only worry on Mal's mind was getting her hair dyed, and keeping her safe.

On several accounts, men had whistled at her, catcalling and whooping to get her attention. They laughed when he would flip them off in response, and tease him when his arm would snake around her to pull her closer. She grimaced at his touch and arched away from him, threatening to break away from him and run for it, if not for the other men that she'd observed. The instinctual part of her had decided that she was safer with him at the moment, despite her unease. Still, she refused to keep his pace, forcing him to drag her along with him. He didn't let it bother him too much; he had to keep his goal in mind.

The apartment building that they'd stumbled upon was the perfect opportunity to get a shower and a free meal without being found out right away. The ideal plan was to find an apartment with a young couple inhabiting it so that they could both shower and have access to hygiene products. He was in need of a shave and a chance to bathe, and she needed hair products to fix the mess that he'd made of her locks. Zoey wasn't religious, but she prayed to any god that would listen in hopes that there wouldn't be anyone in whichever apartment he decided to invade. From what she could tell, Mal didn't distinguish people as men, women, or children anymore. He seemed to see them as threats, all of them. She had no desire to see what he would do to any of them if he thought she was in 'danger'. From what she could tell, he had made her into his religion. She was his idol, and he would do anything to keep her sacred and safe.

They entered the apartment building and took the stairs to the top floor. Though the hallways of the building were deserted, they remained as quiet as possible. He gripped her fingers in his own, and out of fear she remained quiet and calm. The farthest corner from the stairway looked promising to the young man. He led her in that direction and tried the doorknob. It pitched, locked from the inside.

"Fuck," he grumbled, leaning down to examine the lock. He turned to stare at her. "Got any bobby pins?" She quickly shook her head, and he cursed again. He stood up straight and turned to her, eyes narrowed, thinking. She watched him with a frown, taking a step back from him.

"Well, that's unfortunate," she murmured quickly. "Let's get out of here."

"No." He shook his head, pressing her back against the wall gently with one hand. "I've got it."

"I don't want to be here. It's not safe." Her eyes darted between the sides of the hallway before glancing back up at him. He glared at her.

"We're not going anywhere until we're clean and fed." He surveyed the door for another moment before he grimaced. "I can't kick it in. If there's someone inside, they'll be alerted immediately." She cast him an accusatory glance before lowering her head.

"Good," she muttered to herself. "At least they'll be safe from you." He ignored her, doing his best to remain calm. After a moment, he turned his attention back to her.

"I'm going to kick it in," he decided, scowling. She froze, pressing her back even harder against the wall.

"You're going to get us _killed_," she hissed. "You're being reckless."

"What, are you worried?" He smirked at her before his lips fell back into a grimace. "I won't let _anything_ happen to you." He stood back a bit. For a moment he looked hesitant, and he stared at the door. The next, his foot was smashing hard against the wood, and the threshold was forced open. There was no sound from inside. Not a noise. His eyes narrowed, and he gently took her by the wrist and led her inside. She ignored Mal for a moment to take in her surroundings. It was hardly lived in, but what littered the inside was a huge mess. The few things they could see from the entrance were askew or broken, some of them both at once. The air itself was thick with the smell of alcohol and dust, the must making her choke a bit. He nudged her inside, tightening his fingers about her wrist.

He glanced about before he frowned. There was a small, dumpy couch in the center of the main room, light snoring resounding from it. From the hallway, it was muffled, almost nonexistent; however, once inside, it became more and more audible. Mal approached the one piece of furniture with slit eyes, gritting his teeth. He let his fingers fall from hers, leaving her at the threshold, and pulled the knife from his pocket.

"No," she whispered, panicking, and quickly reached out to hold his arm back. "_No._ What are you _doing?_" He merely shook himself free of her grasp and leaned over the back of the couch to regard the sleeping man. He wasn't old, but not young, a heavy stubble dirtying his face. He held in his fingers a bottle of whisky. Several beer cans littered the floor around the couch.

"Doing the poor bastard a favor." He shrugged. She gulped before nervously regarding the current state of the sleeping man.

"By doing what, exactly? He's obviously passed out drunk. Just leave him alone."

"Only those who are sick at heart drink like this," he murmured, turning to stare at her. "It would be much more kind of me to end his pain and misery." With his eyes locked on hers, he brought the knife's cold, sharp edge to the man's throat.

"NO!" she yelled and leapt forward, trying to pull him away once more. She knew she didn't have the size or weight to be anything more than a pest. "You aren't a god! Who gives you the right to decide if that man lives?"

"Simple. Nobody. I just do. I'm crazy, remember?" He grinned at her, a cold, mirthless grin, and slid the weapon across the man's throat, splitting the skin. The thick, red liquid that gave him life ushered from his wound, and the man's eyes shot open. He gasped for breath that wouldn't come, choking and drowning in his own blood. Mal put his hand over the man's eyes, shushing him in the most comforting way he could muster.

"It's alright," he said. "In a moment, you won't feel a thing." Zoey's hands slowly slipped from his arm and she stumbled back.

They say that when you experience death for the first time that you become sick, like your innards are trying to rip themselves from your belly and push through to your throat. Some suffered shock first, unable to take in the scenario, and some simply get sick and splash their meal over the floor. She did neither. After a moment of silence, her eyes locked on the door. He seemed completely consumed with his kill. All of the attention he'd been giving her had slipped away and she took advantage of the situation, jumping on the opportunity to quietly move towards the door. When her fingers grazed the handle, she paused for a moment to listen for him before gliding through the doorway. Upon reaching the threshold of the hallway, she abandoned the dead man and his killer, running like hell.

He didn't notice her absence at first, too preoccupied with the man that he'd just laid to waste. He smiled to himself, satisfied with his work, before he frowned, looking up.

"Zoey?" His head snapped around in every direction, trying to find her. He growled and jumped to his feet, turning his attention from the dead to the living. Dashing out the door with a sneer, he caught sight of her down the hallway. "Zoey! What the _fuck_!" Her eyes quickly darted up to his before she ran faster, heading for the fire escape.

"Leave me _alone_!" He ran after her, eyes ablaze, teeth grit. He had to catch her. He _had_ to. And he would. He stumbled after her, eying both her and the fire escape, cursing to himself.

"God _damnit_, Zoey! Get back here!" He was gaining on her quickly now, his long legs taking half as many strides as hers. At this rate, there was no hope for her. She was going to die, hands down. Zoey managed to make it to the fire escape, and immediately jiggled the knob. Then, her heart skipped a beat. It was locked.

"_Oh, please no_." She gave the door a swift kick, jerking the knob back with all of her strength. "Oh, no, no, no, no, no, _no!_" She hardly had enough time to sputter the last words before he had her pinned back against the door, flipping her around to face him. He pressed her hard into the metal frame, his body keeping hers in one spot. He whipped out his knife once more, still dirtied from the life he'd taken only moments ago. She emitted a small yelp as her hands shot up to cover her head.

"Give me one damned good reason why I shouldn't kill you!" he whispered harshly, so close to her that she could feel his hot breath on her lips and cheeks. "Damn it, Zoey, answer me! Gimme a reason!" He held the knife threateningly to her throat, eyes wide and crazed. She sputtered, trying to come up with some reason, any reason. After a moment, she squeezed her eyes shut.

"I don't have one," she muttered breathlessly, her whole body shaking with fear. He stared her in the eye, holding her face up so that she was forced to look at him. He grit his teeth and then closed his eyes.

"Nothing?"

"You've made a point of doing whatever you want despite what I say," she pointed out quietly. "So it doesn't matter, anymore." He watched her carefully, looking over her trembling, terrified features. He lowered the knife from her neck slowly, glowering as he removed it.

"Shut up," he murmured gruffly, standing up straight. He took her by the wrist and started to drag her back in the direction of the apartment, his eyes smoldering. "We're finishing this." She struggled every way she could besides throwing her weight on the floor and having him drag her on her bottom. By the time he'd managed to haul her back to the apartment, she'd managed to do a good job of exhausting herself instead of him.

She crumpled into a little ball, as far away from the dead man as she could possibly escape to without him threatening her again. Blood had never really bothered her before now. When she became a psychiatric nurse, she knew that she'd have to deal with some. She'd learned how to draw blood, not because she necessarily would ever have to, but because it was part of the job description. The blood from hospitals and this were completely different, though. It was different from seeing the red liquid contained neatly in cute little vials compared to spattered over the surroundings. Especially when this man's heart had pumped all of it out and onto the floor through his jugular.

She looked at him, now. This nameless victim. The blood hadn't really shot out ten feet in the air like she remembered watching in her cheesy old samurai movies. Sure, it had shot out a little, but had more or less started gushing out, similarly to a waterfall, until the dead guy's skin was stained with it. She brought her hand up to her mouth after a moment and began retching, stomach heaving. She realized that she must have looked pretty pitiful to Mal, coughing and sputtering to keep her meal down. She _felt_ pitiful.

He let her have her moment as he cleaned the blood from his knife, glancing up at her with a raised eyebrow. He shrugged as if nothing had happened and sauntered over to her, pulling the little box of hair dye from his hoodie pocket.

"Can you do this yourself? Or do you need my assistance?" He held it out to her, sliding his tongue over his teeth as he awaited her response. He frowned when she didn't reply or acknowledge his presence. "Zoey. It's time to take a shower." Her hand reached up slowly, hovering at the box for a moment before she smacked it out of his hands. She looked up for a moment only to watch it land in a splotch of blood. He watched it for a moment before he took it tenderly in his fingers once more.

"I will not do a damned thing for you," she finally whispered, voice cracking. He watched her carefully before he tilted up her chin and held her in place firmly, forcing her to look at him yet again.

"You will." He only offered her a blank stare in return, both of their faces smeared with blood from his fingertips. "Because I will make you. Look, Zoey. I'm your friend. I'm the only friend you've got right now, whether you want me or not. I will do _anything_ to keep you close." He pulled her to her feet, fingers wrapped tightly around hers. As soon as she was standing, she ripped her fingers from his. The redhead cringed away from him, eyes wide with disgust.

"Don't touch me. Don't _ever_ touch me. I want to go _home_, Mal."

"I'll touch you when I want to," he spat back. "Better make yourself comfortable, honey. _I'm_ your home now." He said it with such conviction that it made her flinch. His words were as sharp as his blade and twice as cold. His tongue stung her, leaving her stunned and speechless. She stood silently, glowering at him with all the hate her tiny form could hold. He kept his eyes trained on her for a long time before he sighed.

"You give me no choice, then." With that, he grabbed her, one hand over her mouth, his other arm wrapping firmly about her waist as he dragged her in the direction of the small, dumpy bathroom. She tried screaming before realizing that with his fingers clamped over her mouth, the sounds she made were barely audible. Her hand shot up to pry his hand from her mouth, the other going to shove his arm from her waist. He was simply too strong. He pushed her into the bathroom and shut the door, leaning back against it. He watched her, expectant, and she stared back at him, breathless and incensed.

"Hurry up," he uttered, tossing the dye in her direction. "And be quiet. I can just as easily tote around a dead body, and I won't hesitate to, if you give me another reason."

"Are you going to watch or something?" she asked bluntly, fingers hovering at the hem of her shirt.

"No," he replied, eyes lingering at her fingertips before he looked away. "I'm going to clean myself up."

"Whatever," she mumbled quietly, her lips pulling back into a snarl. She took a moment to make peace with the fact that he would probably look anyways before turning her back on him.

She stripped relatively quickly, wadding her clothes into a pool by his feet. After briefly skimming the contents of the box, she drew the shower curtain around the tub and pulled the contents out of the box, organizing them quickly. The powders and dyes were mixed, and she was quickly massaging the goopy mess into her hair.

Her mind drifted slowly, letting her hands take control. Before she could realize again that she wasn't back in her own home, in her own shower, she'd finished, reaching out to grope for a towel. Her hand was greeted by one, which Mal held out to her. He had stripped away his hoodie and shirt, and was rinsing away all of the blood from his skin. He'd already shaved his face clean, though there hadn't been much facial hair to dispose of. He looked a little more civil, now, less wild. Perhaps it was just the cleanness of his face, but he didn't look like a killer anymore. Just a boy, barely any older than her.

She accepted the towel, wrapping it around herself before stepping onto the mat. He glanced over at her expectantly before he frowned, reaching for the shirt that he'd earlier tossed aside. She looked away, tucking the towel tightly until she could reach down without it coming undone. She refused to watch him, not wanting to feel sympathetic or even relatively attracted to him again. He kept his eyes trained upon her form before he sighed and turned to the door.

"Get dressed, and let's get out of here. We don't have time to sit around." He yanked the shirt over his head, and pulled the door open. "Somebody's gonna find him, at some point, and we don't want to be here when they do."

"You could've left him alive," she stated. Her voice held none of the hostility from earlier, appearing calm. She slipped her underwear and her bra on quickly. "I won't forgive you. You can tell me that you'll kill me, but I don't think you will." She smiled bitterly, pulling on her shirt. She didn't care that she hadn't given him a chance to make it out the door for her own privacy. She didn't care at all, anymore. He turned around to look at her, expression unreadable. "I think you know that doing that is just an easy way for me to escape you. Maybe I'm wrong, but you're too selfish for that. So threaten me all you want." She ended her speech by smoothing over her features so they were as unreadable as his. She'd been cooperating with him too much. She wasn't going to play the victim, anymore. Two could fight on his terms.

He slowly approached her, eyes cold and detached, and he carefully removed a lock of hair from behind her ear. He stared down at her, looking thoughtful for a long time before he gently tucked the lock back in place, and smiled.

"Such a lovely shade of red," he murmured simply, clasping a hand to his heart. "And a lovely, touching speech. I'm moved, Zoey. Really." He scowled once more, masking several emotions at once with scorn. He offered her a soft pat upon the cheek before he closed his eyes and turned away again, face falling blank and empty once more.

"Enjoy it while you can," she said curtly, slipping on her pants and clasping the belt. "Duncan _will _find me, and when he does, I'm never coming back." He ignored her, or at least did his best to, as he slipped away from the bathroom and back out to the living room. He had plenty to search for before they left. He found an empty grocery bag, and began to stock all of the man's food inside of it. They would need it, eventually.

Several towns over, Duncan was sitting in the living room, the two officers accompanying him with slightly awkward gaits. Their meeting had been mostly silent. It had been nearly two weeks since Zoey had gone missing, and they still didn't have a hit on where the psycho had taken her. He was growing impatient, but had resigned to pining for her and being depressed. It took all of his might not to get involved and caught up in the law. As much as he would have loved to be a vigilante and save her on his own, there were too many legal repercussions that could permanently separate him from her. He didn't want that. She was the little bit of light that he had left, that he had kept to himself and loved wholly. Now she was gone.

Jo hated showing any empathy for the situation. She'd previously informed Duncan bluntly that the survival rate of kidnap victims dropped dramatically after the first week, and became smaller every day after. Brick had seemed to be the most willing to show his sympathy, and despite her previous reserve about her new partner, she had begun to form a small respect for him. Of course, this was something she'd never admit out loud. Still, he influenced her behavior from time to time, proving to have the ability to calm her down when no one else could. Her cynicism was still heavily in place, though. She had no problems letting herself be the bad cop if it got things done.

"We've been combing the whole area for a trace of them," she snorted after a while, breaking the lengthy silence. Her expression was bored, showing nothing but her adamant displeasure at being back here, again. She hated the feeling that she was actually getting caught up in a case that had proven to be nothing but a dead end. "Some overweight alcoholic was killed a few days ago, in a city not too far from here, but without a murder weapon or prints on the scene, we can't prove anything. We can't even trace the killers."

"Don't worry, though," Brick murmured to the man. Duncan had slumped into the couch, head in his hands, miserable and worried beyond anybody's comprehension. "We'll find your girl, okay? We'll bring her home safe." He offered a cheery smile, doing his best to make him feel better. Jo frowned at that, smacking him on the shoulder. He turned and glared at her, clenching his teeth to tell her not to say a word. Obviously, she didn't pay him any heed.

"Don't make any promises you can't keep," she snapped, narrowing her eyes at him. "Statistically, she's probably dead by now."

"There's this special little thing called _hope_, Callister. You'd be surprised what it can do, even when situations seem bleak. Perhaps you should invest in it. It could do you good." He smiled at her, a bit sarcastic, before he shook his head. She scoffed at him and rolled her eyes.

"Did you pick that up on your way back from Preschool, McArthur?" She glared at him for a moment, challenging him to make a comeback at her before she turned her attention back to Duncan. "I'm just telling the truth. Hope isn't going to save anyone. It takes hard work and discipline. Would you rather I gave you _hope_ like McArthur, over here, or the facts?" The punk merely stared at her, unsure of how to respond. He was purely miserable, unable to truly comprehend what either of them were saying anymore.

"I-" He frowned, staring back at his lap. "Don't know." McArthur groaned softly, and shook his head. Sometimes Callister just didn't know when to put a sock in it. He clamped his teeth together, doing his best from spitting something acidic in return to her venomous accusations. He sighed softly and pat the man on the back.

"Just rest at ease," he murmured. "It's best that you don't worry yourself. I know you're in a lot of pain. But I'll do my _best _to bring Miss Ozera home to you. Alright?" She tsked impatiently at the two men, but said nothing more, crossing her arms over her chest. McArthur looked up at his partner before he sighed.

"We should probably skip over to investigate that scene, huh?"

"Cut the nice crap. Let's just go," she grumbled, moving jerkily into a standing position before she stomped out the door.

"_Stop the nice crap, McArthur. Quit being a good guy, McArthur. Blah blah blah._" He followed after her only a moment later, making sure that he was out of earshot.


	10. Half Moon Run

_Heya guys! We have a new chapter for you! If it took a little while to post, we apologize. We've been working on two chapters at once, and are approaching the final editing stages of the conclusion of this story. That doesn't mean that the fun has to end anytime soon! We have two or three chapters to upload after this, and then, we'll be working on new stories fo r this universe! Be sure to check them out, if you liked this one! (I will continue to repeat this xD sha meless advertisement, yo!)_

_Well. Once again, thanks for your reviews and your involvement ! I can't tell you enough how much Bialy and I freaking adore this archive. You guys are probably the m ost incredible, friendly readers ever, and we love you for it! So here. Have Chapter 10! We're sorry for the lateness. We've been caught up in some stuff._

_~Moony & Bialy_

Chapter Ten - Half Moon Run

"Sneaky bastard." The woman tapped the side of her head with narrowed eyes, her burnt blonde hair falling into her face a bit. She quickly pushed it away, scouring the crime scene. "He barely left a trace behind, if it was him." Jo and Brick had been working on the investigation for hours, trying to find ways to link it to the missing sociopath. With frustration building along with tension, it was very unfortunate that there was little they could do. Delasin had left them very few clues; their biggest however, were simple. The body, and the discarded empty bottle of hair dye.

"Somebody's got red hair," Brick murmured, studying the box. He quickly turned his attention to the bathtub. "We'll have to see if there's any biotic evidence. Hairs, skin particles, anything that might indicate who's who."

"Did you read over the case file?" Jo turned quickly to stare at him and then the box.

"Of course I did," he mumbled, and continued more to himself than to her. "He's attacked women with red hair in the past. But that doesn't mean that his obsession for it has to be outward. He could have dyed his _own _hair red. Or perhaps nobody's hair was dyed at all. At least, not our culprits…" He trailed off, looking thoughtful. She grumbled, stalking over to the couch.

"He wouldn't dye his own hair, dumbass. The nurse he took had red hair. It was sexual." He rolled his eyes, looking a bit annoyed.

"What about a disguise?" He frowned, staring at her for a long hard moment. He ran a hand through his hair before going through the records again. "Either way, the victim had a girlfriend of some sort, who lived here for a while. _She _could have dyed her hair."

"We'll just have to send it to the lab and check for prints," she mumbled. "The nurse never got arrested, so her prints aren't in the system. Michael, on the other hand, was stupid enough to get caught in an assault. I'll bet you here and now that those prints belong to him, brick-for-brains." He nodded in response, biting his lip before he broke out into a small grin.

"I hope you're right, Callister." He smiled right at her, despite her abusive name calling and belittling. He really was something. Always cheery. A hard worker. She shook her head, softening.

"Of course I'm right," she scoffed half-heartedly and crossed her arms. "Unless you want to hang around uselessly, call the CSI and have them do another sweep. Those idiots have probably missed some things again, and I will _not_ be made a fool of in this investigation." He nodded his response, standing up straight.

"Let's get them in here then, and head back to the station. We'll see if we can't pick up on anything else. Maybe the police found something useful for us." With that, he pulled his phone from his pocket, dialed a few numbers, and they were on their way.

The head of the department was a friendly fellow, a little bit jolly; nevertheless, he was incredibly absorbed in his work. He had a lead for the detectives the moment they walked through the door.

"Callister. McArthur. Good to see you," he mused, arms crossed across his chest. "I got a call from the Police Department a few towns over. This might interest you a bit, since you're so intent on finding that sociopathic sucker." Jo raised an eyebrow at Brick before she crossed her arms.

"What can you give us?"

"Well. Over in Mityville, where your latest victim was murdered?" Jo frowned, eyebrows shooting up.

"Get to the point. What's going on?"

"There's an abandoned house on the outskirts of the city. It's been on the chopping block for a while; the town simply doesn't have enough money to tear it down. For the past week or so, people have been calling in complaints about a few people breaking in. You might want to go check it out with the police department, see if you can find anything inside."

"We'll go talk to the cops, and have them give us the details they have before we check out the house." She was quiet for a moment, brow furrowing before she scowled. "We'll need some free teams ready to come in for backup if we end up dealing with Michael." She turned to Brick. "He needs to be considered armed and dangerous. It's not going to be my ass on the line if people get hurt." Her partner nodded in agreement.

"You're absolutely right," he murmured. "We'll head over to Mityville, then. Thanks for the lead." He pat Jo on the shoulder, turning to go. The chief nodded, biting his lip nervously for a moment.

"You two be careful," he said, frowning. She snorted, waving off his worry as they exited.

"Always are. There's a reason we're the best of the best." They had no reason for worry; at least, for now they didn't. For now, they were safe, and wouldn't have to deal with any psychopaths or murderers. All that they had to do, in that moment, was skip over to Mityville and hope that these leads would pull them in the right direction. Though it didn't sound like much, it was the hope that was biting at them. McArthur had no trouble with being hopeful. He knew that there was a chance they would find the man and take him in. It was Callister who had trouble believing there was anything to hope for anymore.

Such was the evening for McArthur and Callister.

A few hours earlier, Zoey and Mal had managed to return to their hideaway with ease. The back door creaked as he pushed it open, holding it for her to enter. She stood reluctantly for a moment, simply staring at him, before she slowly eased herself into the rundown house.

This place was a wreck. She hadn't really been able to see it before, in the dark; but now, the insuperable damage was clear. The front door of the abandoned abode-along with most of the windows on the ground floor-was boarded up in hopes of deterring adolescents from sneaking inside at night. That left only one entryway, and that was the dented up door that led in from the backyard. The backyard, surrounded by overgrown hedges taller than the average man, was impossible to see from the short little houses that surrounded it, lest someone were to sit on the roof and stare directly down at the grass. Even that was a bit of a chore; one with little reward, at that. The yard was an eyesore, overgrown with weeds, with uncut and unkempt grass whose blades were sharp enough to leave small lacerations on soft skin. One tree sat in the corner of the yard, gnarled and twisted with its branches warped to one side. It shaded the entire yard, leaving it cold and dark and damp, a rather sombre place to abide one's time.

The interior of the house was in even worse shape than the outside. A two-story building, along with a basement, the house was spacious and empty save for a few beer cans that had been abandoned by mischievous teens, and the chair in the basement. The ceiling of the first floor was corroded with water damage and mold from years of neglect, the wooden floors beneath it warped with time and heat, swelled in places from extra water leakage that had dripped from the ceiling. Mal had scouted the top floor. The rooms were empty, with no sign of furniture or living luxuries. The only clue that the house had ever been inhabited by a living creature was the occasional mouse dropping, or the scuttle of small animals inside the house's frame-inside the walls. Generally speaking, the house was a disaster; a spooky, melancholy disaster that was perfect for them, for now. It would have to do until they found something better to use, a better resource to take advantage of.

Zoey hated this place, despite her slight admiration for its melancholy beauty. It was her prison. Like any prisoner, she was forced to stay; out of fear, out of threat, out of a slight thrill, and she couldn't decide which of the three made her most sick. Nonetheless, her loathing for her captivity _and _for her warden was nothing short of exasperating. She was an animal, pacing back and forth behind the iron bars that were the walls of this house. From time to time, a small glimpse of civilization would worm its way into her vision, teasing her and torturing her to no end. Still, she was kept here, with nobody to comfort her but the man she hated most in the world. It was sheer poison to the redhead, a venom that was killing her from the inside out. The obsession that she reserved for him was unhealthy; the hate she had for him for making her stomach churn with mixed emotions. A flutter of the heart-from fear or attraction, she sometimes had a hard time deciphering-or a flip or churn of the stomach would send her into hours of silence, ignoring and avoiding his gaze as if he had the plague. Everything he touched was black; he might as well have been some diseased creature with the ability to kill everything it touched, or lay it to ruin.

He was a lamentable wretch of a man, she knew. She tried very little to understand him and his strange mannerisms. Sometimes, though, she couldn't help but pity him when he looked at her _that way_. She was the moon to him, bright and beautiful, an idol to worship; and though he had a hard time expressing it, she could see it in his eyes when he looked at her _that way._ She sometimes had to remind herself not to show him any affection. Sometimes, she had to remind herself that he was a killer, not a little boy to kiss and tease and hold an affinity for. His heart was an empty, dark, bottomless thing that knew nothing of emotions or human understanding. He was a monster. Yet she still somehow managed to get lost, and stray from her hate when he looked at her that way. And so the loathing for him that she within her would bubble and boil within her, just for making her forget reality for only a moment.

Mal never made his feelings for the girl private; he kept no secrets from her. He fed her, he watched her, he protected her from the dangers of society, shielding her from the outside world. He couldn't help himself, not at night when he gazed upon her sleeping figure and peaceful visage. Seeing her in a state of tranquility made the hairs on the back of his neck stand on end. The truth that he could do anything he pleased to her gave him a sense of control; that he didn't do anything to her at all made him confident in his will. The only thing he wouldn't do for the girl was let her leave him.

As she stumbled through the door, he followed after her, doing his best to seem cold and detached. This was a normal act for him, one that she'd learned to see through with ease. He angsted behind his smooth mask, fighting back his instincts to touch and hold her body close to his. He glared at her before he stepped inside and closed the door behind him.

"Well," he murmured. He didn't say anything after that, having nothing left to say. His eyes scanned her expression before he approached her again. She kept her eyes averted from his, glowering at the floor with intense detestation.

"Well?" she uttered through her teeth, voice hushed and strained. "Well, what?" He narrowed his eyes and looked away from her, shoving his hands into his pockets. He came closer to her, a bit hesitant, until he had his torso pressed up against hers, similarly to the way she pressed into him when she wanted something. He raised a hand to her cheek.

"Well." He kept his eyes upon her, studying her carefully. When she didn't return his gaze, he sighed and allowed his hand to slip from her visage, his head leaning back a bit to stare at the ceiling. "We're going to have to get out of here soon." He waited for her to respond, eyes trained upon the water stains that littered the ceiling.

"Where are we supposed to go?" she mumbled after a while, and drew her arms up to clutch her elbows. He took a step back from her, running a hand through his hair. For the first time since the beginning of this giant escapade, he seemed distressed and less than confident. He hadn't planned this far ahead. He turned to look at her again, worry evident upon his features.

"I-" He paused, voice stalling before he continued, honest. "I don't know. I don't know." He gripped the sides of his head, trying to rack his brain. He was incredibly unsure of himself, eyes darting about. How long had it been since he'd taken any medication? She didn't have time to ponder it. A bit of relief etched across his face, an idea working into his brain.

"I'll have to go in search of someplace for us to stay," he stuttered quickly. "Someplace... away." Her eyes widened slightly, and she couldn't stop herself as her lips twitched upwards.

"Go do that. I'll be fine here, really." He stared at her silently before he grinned, bliss ebbing into his gaze. He took a step closer to her again, and carefully laid a kiss upon her forehead.

"I'll be back. Stay here. Don't go anywhere. I'll be testing you." He glanced to the door before he lowered his lips to hers and quickly stole a kiss, not even bothering to wait for her to return it. It was over as quickly as it had begun, and with that, he rushed from the room and out the back door again, some plot brewing within his abnormal mind. She waited until she was sure he was completely vacated from the premise before she frowned, eyes narrowing.

"Like I'm going to stay here," she spat to herself. She'd been thinking of ways to get out for days. Endlessly, over and over, she had mapped out every part of this decrepit house. She had retraced in her mind until she was convinced she could navigate out of here in complete darkness. Of course, all of her previous plans to escape had stemmed out of his constant presence at her side, so she'd been focused on trying to leave with him around. Now, he was just leaving the door wide open for her.

All rationality knew that this had to be some sort of trap. Well, just as Mal had put it, it was a test. Nonetheless, there was a chance for her to finally escape him and return home, where she belonged. Duncan's arms had never seemed so inviting to her than when she fantasized about their reunion. She wouldn't wait anymore. She had to get out.

Her fingers barely brushed the wall before she found herself nearly running to the base of the steps. The stairs creaked, she'd figured out that if she displaced her weight on the far ends of each step, there would be almost no noise. It was slow and tedious, but it would be worth it if she could successfully get free of Mal. She had never loathed someone as much as she did him. She loathed him for what he was, and for confusing her.

The outside-with its small patch of broken asphalt and concrete sidewalk-was broken in a way that matched the broken house that it resided with. However, as soon as her feet touched the cracks, it became the most beautiful thing she'd ever seen. She didn't think about how she was alone in a place that housed criminals of the like nearby-ones not inclined to protect her out of some sick fetish-and had no obligation to help her or ensure any safety should she come across one.

The streetlight on the other side of the road flickered ominously, nearing the end if its life. This area of the city was neglected. She didn't notice. She didn't _care._ She didn't even take much time to enjoy her sudden freedom or observe her surroundings. Before she had any time for any luxuries of that sort, she was running, faster than her feet had ever carried her before. Adrenaline pushed through her veins, an addictive, thrilling high following it and giving her a strength she'd never encountered within herself. She was running, escaping her loathsome, lonely prison. She'd find her way out of this goddamn place, and she would be _free_. Her only goal was to make it somewhere and call the police; sweet and simple. She wasn't counting on what would happen next.

The dealer sauntered down the street with a hefty sum of cash in one pocket, and a pack of cigarettes and a lighter in the other. He hadn't a care in the world, enjoying every bit of the great bounty he'd acquired. The only thing that could have possibly made the moment any better was a beautiful woman to take advantage of; much to his delight, one was just rounding the corner. Running at a nearly impossible speed, her bright red hair flared out behind her. She wasn't paying any attention to where she was going or who she was passing. He took full advantage of that, and grabbed her by the waist as she sped by, pressing her up against the brown privacy fence that shielded one yard from the road. She hardly had time to gasp or comprehend the situation before his lusty voice was purring in her ear.

"Well, well, well," he uttered wickedly, tilting her chin up. "What have we here? If it isn't the redhead from the alley. Pleasant surprise, seeing you here." He whistled lowly to himself. She could smell the tobacco on his breath. "What a beauty. Where's your boyfriend, fox?" She looked up at him, jerking her chin away. The disgust was obviously written over her features as she tried to pull herself away.

"Playing Tag," she said quickly, trying not to choke on the smell. "I'd better get back. My, ah, _boyfriend_." She mulled over the word, face scrunching, "Is a pretty possessive guy. I wouldn't be the one to catch the man messing around with his girl."

"Aw, isn't that cute?" He frowned softly, head cocking a bit. "I'm sure he wouldn't mind sharing just this once. After all, it's hard to keep my hands off a body like that one. Fox." He smiled maliciously before he pressed his body against hers, pinning her in place. He was a pig. What an awful _pig_. It occurred to her after a moment that Mal had never forced himself upon her like this.

"Actually, I think that he would," her voice hitched up a notch. She placed her hands on the man's chest, trying to push him away at least enough to slip under and away. "We don't like sharing. I don't like sharing. You need to get off of me." She was hiding her distress well, but she could feel fear bubbling in her stomach, different from any fear that she'd ever held in Mal's presence. The man only chuckled, pressing closer to her as he reached into one pocket to reveal a small pistol.

"Off with the shirt," he demanded, gesturing with his gun. He cocked it quickly, unafraid to actually use it. Unlike Mal, he would actually use his weapon against her, and he would feel no guilt from it. "Come on. Take it off. I want it off _now_." She whimpered, but complied, shrugging her shirt over her head as slowly as she could. She preferred herself shirtless over dead, and stalling for time might still give her a chance to get away. His wicked smile returned, and he ran a hand through her hair.

"Aw, what a pretty color," he trilled, evil eyes glowing in the dim night. "Good taste." He leaned down and pressed his lips forcefully against her neck, biting at her with ferocity. He was strong. Too strong. She'd never be able to escape. She willed her eyes to shut tight, and her body tensed as she tried to tug away from him, her discomfort evident. Just as he began to slip his hand down the front of her pants, she felt his immense weight torn from her. One gun shot rang out before the gun was torn from the druggie's hand and thrown off in some direction. It clattered as it slid across the pavement.

"DON'T TOUCH HER!" Her heart caught in her throat, stomach flipping and sending jitters throughout her body. Slowly, she opened her eyes to take in the unfolding scene. Mal had come to her rescue. He'd managed to wrestle the man to the ground, and was now pounding against him hard, one fist after the next. "NEVER FUCKING TOUCH HER!" He grabbed the man by the collar of his shirt, slamming the back of his head repeatedly against the asphalt. With a sickening moan, the man's head lulled a bit, several whimpers escaping his pitiful throat.

"C-C'mon man," the wretch whispered. "I was only playin' with'er. I was jus-AUGH!" He was cut off with a smarting fist to his jaw.

"Your excuses," Mal spat. "Are a disgrace. I give zero _fucks_ as to what you were doing. You lay a finger on that girl, and I'll make sure you never touch another woman in your _life._" He lifted the man's hand roughly by the wrist, counting each digit to him. "Ten. You have ten. One by one, slowly, _painfully_, they'll be reduced to zero." The drug dealer blubbered for a few minutes before Mal released him, eyes narrowed to slits. He smiled as the man scampered to his feet, not even casting so much as a glance in the redhead's direction as he ran full speed in the opposite direction. After a moment, the young man sighed and turned back to the girl, anger fading to disappointment.

"You failed the test," he mumbled. He studied her carefully before he shook his head and pulled off his hoody, exposing a blue T-shirt from underneath. He handed the sweatshirt to her, eyes averted from hers. With a hushed voice, he continued. "Here. Put this on. You'll catch your death." She took the article of clothing with shaky hands, gulping as she nodded shortly.

"T-Thank you. I…" She trailed off, and slipping the clothing on. She simply looked up at him, staring. Her jaw fell slack and her eyes glazed over. He watched her attentively before he tugged her into a tight hug.

"It's okay. I've got you. Don't do that again. Not in a place like this." He closed his eyes before he removed his body from hers and took her hand. "We need to get back to the house before we're seen." She nodded, making no protests this time and squeezed his hand tightly. The steady pressure from her fingers wasn't affectionate. It was the same way a child would grip tightly to anything it could find when lost in the dark. He squeezed her fingers in return, leading her back in the direction of their 'home' and doing his best not to look at her. He could scarcely breathe, the flesh of his knuckles all busted and bleeding. Still, he held his hand tightly around hers, refusing to let go.

Their journey seemed to drag on forever, but when they reached the house, his body tensed completely, and his fingers squeezed hers so tightly that she thought she might lose circulation. There were three cars parked in front of the house, two of which were from the Mityville Police Department. He turned to stare at her for a moment before he tugged her in the direction they'd come from. They were running again. They couldn't be found. _Couldn't._ He wouldn't let it end like this. He cursed to himself as they rounded corner after corner, hiding in bushes and behind trees whenever a car would pass on the street. Tonight, the half moon washed everything in silver, casting long shadows and making it difficult for them to hide. They couldn't keep this up for long. They needed to escape.

For the first time, that night, Zoey helped her captor. They stole a car, and just like that, they were running from the law. There was no turning back now. They had crossed the point of no return _together_.

.


End file.
